


Satin and Souls

by PictureStories



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, The characters in this fan fiction are based on ABC's Once Upon A Time so I don't own them.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 61,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PictureStories/pseuds/PictureStories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle is a ballerina in the Paris ballet. Former cavalier, Andre Gold, is Belle's mentor who's deeply involved in the French mafia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Satin, Tulle and Mes Amies

She watched Gaston Gautier’s tongue slide along the thick, greedy flesh of his bottom lip; his gaze lazily tracing Ruby’s curves as she completed her pas de cheval. Belle took a deep, quivering breath and prepared for her next penchè. Marie Michel swooped in perfect form to her left and with the last swell of music they had finished their performance. Gaston was waiting in the wing for her. He tucked two strong, sweaty arms around her waist and tugged her into an uncomfortable embrace. Belle struggled against his broad chest. 

“Stop, Gaston!” She gasped, blocking his press with her slender forearms. “I need to get changed.” 

Undaunted challenge pooled in Gaston Gautier’s eyes and his grip only tightened on her small frame, but then he released her. 

“You know where to meet me when you’re finished,” he smirked easily while his eyes shifted to follow a handful of new recruits following Madame Vigneron to her office. 

Belle watched his long stride quickly overtake the flock of girls before she turned and almost collided with a stern-faced Marie Michel Blanc. 

“He’s a jerk. Why do you let him near you?”

Belle flinched, dropped her eyes and released a small sigh. “He’s the closest thing I have to family, Marie. He discovered me –gave me a place here. I owe him everything!”

“No, you don’t owe him anything! It was your talent, your dedication and hard work that got you this position with the company. You don’t owe him a thing!” Marie’s eyes softened and she slipped her arm around her comrade’s slumping shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’ll have you cheered up in no time!” 

The dressing room was ringing with laughter and cheerful voices that lifted Belle’s spirit despite the heaviness of moments before. Ruby Vigneron was reenacting one of her grandmother’s famous disciplinary gestures and the girls were roaring with laughter. Her movements were spot on and Ruby’s face cloned Madame Vigneron’s daunting look so closely there could be no doubt of their blood ties. Belle laughed in spite of herself and moved over to the hanger to retrieve her change of clothes. 

When she was finished Ruby and Marie stood, arms linked in her way. They had both changed, purses slung over their shoulders and determined looks on both their faces. 

“We’ve decided you’re not going back out there tonight,” Ruby stated plainly. “He’s had way too many drinks! You saw the way my grandmother yelled at him when he tripped over the gears in act 1. You shouldn’t meet him tonight.”

“Let’s go out! Just us girls.” Marie smiled brightly. “We haven’t had a night out in ages! Ruby and I were just discussing that new café on the Rue de Charonne.” 

Belle smoothed her hands absently over the navy eyelet folds of her cotton dress and contemplated the possibility of leaving Gaston alone tonight. He wouldn’t like it, but Belle didn’t particularly want to be the subject of his beastly affections right then. What the girls said was true and she knew what that meant for her when they reached his flat. 

“Alright,” she finally surrendered. Both girls looked thrilled and another five minutes later the three of them had snuck out the dressing room’s back door and sped off in Ruby’s little red coup towards the Rue de Charonne. 

The little café was already a buzz with crowds but Marie found a small table outside and the three of them were soon chatting gaily, sharing a pain au chocolat and sipping steamy mugs of coffee.  
Marie Michel nudged Belle’s elbow and nodded once over Ruby’s shoulder at the far side of the patio.

“What is it?” Ruby asked, forgetting her raised fork in an attempt to strain her neck toward wherever her friend was pointing. Marie shook her head quickly. 

“Stop, Ruby! You’ll draw attention to us!” She leaned forward conspiratorially and the others followed suit. “It’s Monsieur Gold. You know! The wealthy patron who always sits in the best seat in the house. They say his personality is absolutely terrifying! He use to be a cavalier but he was injured on the stage, so he turned to business.” 

“Business must be doing well!” Ruby laughed and threw a playful glance over her shoulder. 

“Tais toi, Ruby! Madame Vigneron says he hates women.”

Belle searched him out over another sip of her cappuccino. There he was, still in his black and whites, sipping his wine and reading a newspaper. His soft brown hair framing dark eyes and strong cheekbones brushed the shoulders of his overcoat. His features were sharp and lean. Belle noticed that every movement he made was deliberate and graceful. She didn’t know how long she’d stared at him but he glanced up and their eyes met. Belle felt her cheeks rush with warmth but she couldn’t look away. Those golden orbs held her own in place and she could no more look away than she could stop breathing. His eyes never left hers but she knew that he saw all of her –from her neck to her shoulders, to the prim dress down to the tips of her patent leather flats. After a moment he looked back down at his paper and Belle let out the little gasp of air she’d trapped in her lungs.


	2. Prima Ballerina Assoluta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did she have what it took to become a Prima Ballerina Assoluta? He seemed to think so? Wasn't that all that mattered?

“Saut de basque!” Madame Vigneron sharply commanded. Jefferson launched an impressive jump across stage, expertly folding one foot into his other leg and landing with a flourish. He was an inspirational danseur and a huge flirt. Belle couldn’t help but laugh and clap loudly with the rest of the company as he completed one last perfect turn while plastering a ridiculously maniacal expression on his face. Madame Vigneron was not pleased, but her admonitions never had the desired effect on Jefferson. He simply winked unrepentantly at Belle and Ruby while landing a flat wet kiss on Madame’s wrinkled cheek.

“Imbecile!” Madame Vigneron grumbled and then turned her attention swiftly to the corps de ballet.

Belle let the lights, music and movement envelope her. Life was a limitless, glorious, melodic flow! The corps synchronized their movements with practiced precision and before practice had begun it was over. Belle glanced tentatively to the side of the stage where Gaston normally waited for her –but he wasn’t there and Belle released a sigh of relief. She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d failed to meet him last night and didn’t look forward to what his temper would inevitably throw at her. 

“Belle!” Madame Vigneron impatiently gestured for Belle to join her at the front row of the house where she stood arguing expressively with none other than Monsieur Andre Rochon Gold. Belle snuck a sideways glance at Marie and Ruby who simply stared questioningly back at her while they exited back stage. 

Monsieur Gold’s gloved hands rested easily on a silver-handled cane. His appearance, from head to toe, bespoke strength and carefulness. His suit was a dark hand-stitched woolen pinstripe over a black silk shirt and silver tie. His stance was relaxed but his eyes and jaw were tense with determination. Belle hesitated a few feet away but Madame only waved her forward.

“Ah! Belle! This is Monsieur Andre Rochon Gold. He is one of our most outstanding patrons and he was just telling me how much he appreciated your efforts in rehearsal this afternoon.”

“Merci, Monsieur Gold.” Belle responded hesitantly.

Gold reached out a gloved hand to Belle and gently cradled the tips of her fingers in greeting for an instant. Those orbs of dark with flecks of gold that had captivated her attention so entirely at the café were no less hypnotizing up close. There was no friendliness or warmth in them as he greeted her; only determination and something like curiosity. 

Madame Vigneron continued, “Monsieur Gold is interested in sponsoring your development. As you probably know, he’s taken a dancer from time to time under his personal tutelage. Jefferson is one of these, as well as the famed Mademoiselle Regina Prevot who has recently accepted the position of Prima Ballerina at the Salzburg Ballet.”

Gold’s voice was calm and deliberate. “You have a joie de vivre, Mademoiselle Belle. However, although you have remarkable vigor, there’s no passion behind your dancing. Your technique is acceptable for the corps, but lacks the polish required for a prima ballerina assoluta. I can give you this,” Gold hesitated a breath before adding, “if you’ll let me.”

Belle remained speechless, her gaze drifting from Monsieur Gold to Madame Vigneron. As if she felt Belle needed her to add a word, Madame Vigneron hastened on: “I told Monsieur Gold that you would probably not be interested. We all know how much of a family the corps de ballet have become to you and also you are so young…”

Belle held up two of her slender fingers in an effort to silence her ballet mistress and ease the flow of thoughts to her flooding mind. Prima ballerina assoluta –did he really believe that? No one had ever believed she was capable of so much? Did she even believe it herself? It was all so terrifying and electrifying! She knew there were other, better ballerinas in the corps who deserved this, and yet, she would not insult him by suggesting their names. If he had seen worth in her –if he had seen prima ballerina assoluta in her, that should be enough to convince her inexperienced mind that something more was required of her talent and discipline. Dancing was Belle’s world and she knew what her decision must be.

“You’ll have to come and live with me.” Gold added without emotion. “You will continue your rehearsals here at the ballet for the remainder of this season, but before and afterwards you will work with me. I’ll start with one year. If you produce nothing of worth after that, you’re free to return to the corps de ballet, if they’ll have you.” He directed the last statement with a sidelong glance at Madame Vigneron who only nodded tensely in agreement. 

Belle bit her lower lip intently, allowing it to absorb the shock she felt at this added arrangement. Of course, it made perfect sense that she would be needed for very early and very late hours of intense training and yet what would it be like to live with this man –this statue of determination she knew only stories of. Could she handle the outbursts of temper Marie Michel had described? Did she want to? 

In the end, the living arrangements didn’t matter because she knew that the hope he had raised in her heart could not be quelled and would never lie dormant again. She would do her best and he would do his worst and there was nothing more to be said. 

“I agree.” Belle surprised herself with the steady tone of her voice.

Both Madame Vigneron and Monsieur Gold’s brows rose in slight surprise. Gold was quick to replace his reaction with calm collectedness while Madame’s did not waiver so quickly. 

“You know what you’re committing yourself to, Belle? You are very young and I just…want to be sure you know how much work this will be?” Madame looked doubtful and in that instant Belle’s rebellious resolve was cemented. 

“I do, Madame Vigneron. I believe I can do this.” Belle lifted her chin a hair but it did not escape the notice of Monsieur Gold and she noted the determination brimming in his eyes moments before soften a little. Madame Vigneron shut her lips with a determined snap and shrugged slightly. 

“I’ll give you a moment to gather your things. My car will be at the backstage entrance when you’ve finished. I’ll send someone over later to get your belongings from your flat. We’ll take the weekend to get you acquainted with your new routine.” With that briefest of instructions, Gold nodded slightly and moved down the aisle towards the main entrance. 

“Viens ici. Let’s get your things together,” Madame lead Belle towards the dressing rooms. Inside, Marie Michel and Ruby were waiting for her long after the others had packed up and gone. 

“Is everything okay?” Marie Michel had Belle’s hands gripped within her own in seconds.

“What was that all about?” Ruby prodded, letting her fists rest on her hips in her protective stance.

“Belle has been recruited by Monsieur Gold. Come help me gather her things together.” Madame bustled about the little dressing room gathering small things. 

Marie and Ruby froze with their mouths open slightly. “You can’t be serious!” broke Ruby. 

“Belle, Dear, do you know what kind of man he is? It’s one thing for Jefferson to subject himself to that sort of abuse –but you’re…different…sweeter,” Marie added.

“Jefferson probably makes more trouble for Monsieur Gold than Monsieur makes for him!” Ruby sniggered.

“Did you know that Mademoiselle Regina Prevot was a student of his? She told the papers dreadful stories of the abuse he subjected her to. She said he was unrelenting! He worked her into a mental breakdown!” Marie sucked in a deep breath and looked steadily into Belle’s eyes. “Are you sure you want this?”

“It’s not too late, Belle,” Ruby added with a pleading look.

Belle loved her friends. Their devotion, love and care did so much to soothe her heart in that moment, but it didn’t change her mind. She knew deep down that this was the right decision. 

“I want to do this. I think…I must.” Belle smiled gently at both her friends and than stepped forward and clasped them both in a tight hug. They loved her and she loved them. She knew they would be here for her in a year’s time. 

“Well then,” Marie straightened up and smiled a brave, bright smile at Belle. “Let’s get you ready.”

After a few more minutes and some double checking, Belle’s things were tucked away in her ballet bag, she was changed, and the three girls had made arrangements for Ruby to meet the people coming to their shared flat tomorrow for Belle’s belongings. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Gaston was waiting to the left of the back exit door. “You were suppose to meet me last night,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re not walking out on me again?” More of a command than a question, Gaston trapped Belle’s wrist as she turned the exit handle and slammed the door shut. 

Belle backed away two steps before Gaston’s massive arms slung around her waist. 

“She’s coming with me.” The exit door was open, framing Monsieur Gold and another, taller gentleman behind him. Gaston swung around and then dropped Belle abruptly when a quick, sharp swing sent his legs flying out from under him. Gold pressed the butte of his cane firmly against Gaston’s throat. 

“Touch her again, and I’ll end your career, Boy!” Belle couldn’t see the look on Monsieur Gold’s face in the faint light the street lamp gave through the open door but she heard the deep, guttural sound of his voice and the nervous breaths Gaston released from his position on the floor. After a long moment of silence, Gold stepped away, gripped Belle’s elbow firmly and with a thrust of her bag towards the taller man he guided her steadily out the door and into the waiting town car.

Monsieur Gold relaxed only slightly when they were seated in the car. Belle bit her lip in an effort to keep her fingers from fluttering nervously. The truth was, that she had been very afraid in that moment –afraid that perhaps she wouldn’t be able to meet Monsieur Gold and become a prima ballerina; that perhaps Monsieur Gold would change his mind when he saw Gaston assume control of her; afraid that Monsieur would think she wasn’t worth it after all. A small, almost silent sigh escaped Belle’s lips before she could stop it.

“You’re never to speak to that man again. Do you understand me?” Monsieur Gold was clenching his armrest with white knuckles but other than the bulging veins in his throat his voice and manner was calm and collected. When he looked her in the eye there were no golden flecks –his look was dark and piercing. 

Belle nodded slowly and turned to watch the world rush by in a blur of colors all tinted pink by Parisian street lamps. After an interminable trip in silence, the car pulled into a long curved driveway and stopped before a grand manor that might have been a castle. Belle was tired, and embarrassed. She wanted a bed and a pillow to cry in. This day was much too drawn out, her head ached and her emotions were spilling over. The tall man opened the car door and then followed her and Monsieur Gold up the stone steps into a brightly lit foyer where an elderly gentleman worked efficiently to strip Gold of his gloves and overcoat before reaching for her own.

Belle noted the costly marble floors and dark wood paneling with half lidded eyes. Monsieur Gold’s arm was at her elbow once again as he led her up a flight of wide beautifully carpeted stairs, down a hall and into a room with the tall man keeping quick steps behind them toting her bag. Gold didn’t release her until he had planted her firmly on the edge of a large, luxurious bed. Only then, did he give precise instructions to his assistant concerning a warm meal plenty of rest and an early morning wake up. Belle was too sleepy to pay her usual attention to things but she did remember a comforting meal of delicious soup, soft bread, and milk followed by a cocoon of the softest linen and down.


	3. I'll Do My Best - You Do Your Worst!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ballet is more than perfectly pointed feet and airy jumps, Ballerina! What you feel in your heart will effect your movements. Where is your passion? Where is your heart?"

Belle woke with the earliest morning light and a faint, hesitant knock on her door. Realizing she had slept in her shirt from the day before and no bottoms, she sat straight up in bed, flipped on the bedside light, and gathered the sheets tightly around her. 

“Come in.”

Gold’s tall assistant from the night before poked a tentative head in her room, greeting her with a timid smile. Belle noticed he had a mop of light red curls, pale skin and round, thick spectacles.

“I’m sorry if I woke you, Mademoiselle Belle. Monsieur Gold’s been up for a while and wanted me to make sure you were getting ready for breakfast. I’m Archambault Hopper. I act as Monsieur Gold’s driver, assistant, and well…anything else he needs.” Archambault flashed Belle a kind smile and stood with his back hunched slightly forward and his hands locked self-consciously in front of him.

“It’s nice to finally meet you. Please, just call me Belle,” Belle responded quickly and returned his smile with a friendly grin of her own –anxious to make friends in this new place. 

“And you can call me Hopper. At least, that’s what Monsieur Gold calls me. I’ll leave you now. You’ll find your rehearsal clothes in the drawer of the bureau –clean and pressed.”

“Pressed?”

Hopper blushed. “Monsieur Gold likes his belongings to be well taken care of. I assumed he would want yours to be as well.”

“Yes, of course,” Belle was reminded again of how little she knew about her benefactor. 

“Take the main staircase to the bottom floor and turn right down the hall. You’ll find the dining room on your left, through the double doors.”

Once Hopper had shut the door, Belle slipped out of her bed and tiptoed to the brocade curtained window, drew them back and greeted a pristine world of white. It had snowed heavily last night –the first snow of the season; the thickly blanketed grounds of Gold’s estate shimmered magically in the early morning light.

Belle found her room’s adjoining bathroom and did a quick toilette before heading down the large oak staircase towards the dining room. The house was like Andre Rochon Gold, immaculate, masculine and old world. Each room was filled with ornately carved 18th century furniture and carpeted with plush oriental rugs. The halls were dressed in rich, dark wood paneling and adorned with costly oil paintings.

Monsieur Gold stood in an impeccable dove grey suit hovering over his breakfast at the head of a ten-seat formal mahogany table with the morning paper folded and clutched in one hand. 

“Ah! There you are!” He dropped the paper unceremoniously beside his plate and gestured to the empty chair beside him. Immediately the older gentleman from last night slipped quietly beside her and set down a steaming bowl of oatmeal. 

“Thank you,” Belle smiled graciously at him. Gold looked up with no small hint of amusement. The older gentleman bowed slightly and curved a smile of his own. 

“I’m Belle. I’m new here.”

“Marco Geppetto, Mademoiselle.” 

“Oh, Belle, please. You’re not French are you?”

“No, Mademoiselle,” Marco chuckled. “You may call me Marco. Both of my parents were born in Matera, Italy.” 

Gold continued to smirk in amusement before dismissing Marco with an impatient wave. He took a swallow of café before directing his full attention to Belle. 

“I trust you slept well. Hopper just left to retrieve your things.”

“Thank you,” Belle replied and waited in awkward silence for Monsieur Gold to continue, but he was only watching her steadily. “I…um…Are Hopper and Marco the only two other people in the house?”

“Yes.”

“I thought Jefferson…”

“No, Jefferson keeps a flat a few miles from the opera house. I’ve been working with him for some time, so my instruction no longer needs to be his constant companion. His still pops around often enough to drive me mad, but we schedule a meet once per week.”

Belle couldn’t discern what Monsieur’s personal thoughts or emotions were towards Jefferson so she concentrated on the last few sips of her café and simply said, “I see.”

 

Belle’s muscles screamed under the intense demands shot at her.

“You exaggerate your arm sweep! Like this!” Gold gripped her forearm between two of his long slender fingers and positioned it where he wanted. His breath was a whisper on her shoulder and was gone as quickly as it fluttered there. Belle had never worked so closely with any man in the ballet before. She certainly had never aspired to please anyone as much as she tried to please her new teacher. And oh, how it frustrated her that she knew she fell so short. His praise was as rare as a repeat of his suits. His brow seemed permanently drawn into a perpetual crease of frustration. They worked endlessly all weekend and now it was the morning before she returned to the ballet.

“We’ll work on your rond de jambe this evening when you return.” With that, he and his cane tapped a swift retreat across and out through the door.

Belle collapsed in an undignified heap on the polished floor. Never in her life had she wanted a long, luxurious hot bath as much as she did right then, but there was no time. Hopper would be ready to take her to rehearsal in a couple of minutes –barely enough time to gather her things. With an unladylike grunt, Belle picked herself up and hustled out the door. 

The corps de ballet was already on stage awaiting their turn. Belle hugged Marie and Ruby from behind as she slipped between them.

“Oh, heavens, Belle! I half thought you wouldn’t come today,” Marie squeezed her back.

“I thought you’d be dead,” Ruby quipped with a chummy jab to the ribs. 

“I’m so glad to see you both! You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah, we bet!” Marie shot Belle one last tender smile before the rush of rehearsal swept them out onto the stage. 

It wasn’t until she was in the midst of her emboite that her eyes caught his own. He was intently appraising her movements so she shut her eyes until her turn led her through the remainder of her steps and then behind the curtain. He was probably here to see if she could handle the pressures of practice with him and rehearsal here as well. She knew her movements had taken on better precision upon seeing him, and still it wasn’t half the effort she should have been delivering. Belle groaned into her hand. There wouldn’t be any more sloppy half-hearted practices anywhere, ever again. “Stupid! Absolutely stupid!”

“What’s stupid?” Gaston stood some ten feet away, arms crossed, head crooked to one side, a familiar leer playing on his features. Belle froze in place.

“You!” Ruby shot out and without another word clasped Belle’s hand and led her away to the changing room. “What a freak!” 

“Thanks, Ruby.”

“No problem. I only wish I had Gold’s cane,” she sneered. 

After rehearsal both Marie Michel and Ruby escorted Belle to the back stage exit door. Monsieur Gold nodded greeting to the girls and they released Belle with tender kisses to her cheeks. Gold stepped aside, let her situate herself and then slipped in beside her. Hopper smiled at her in the mirror and Belle returned it. 

“Do you have enough room? Or should I leave space for your exaggerated arm sweeps?”

Belle rolled her eyes but bit her tongue. Monsieur Gold didn’t say anything else on the way home so she didn’t either. 

Shortly after dinner they picked up where they’d left off in the rehearsal hall. As deceivingly simple as this room appeared in comparison to the rest of the house, Belle knew without doubt that more money had been poured into this room than any of the others. The lighting was soft and flattering, the floors were flawless, the barre was antique. Only the graceful arch of the ceiling and windows tied this room to the rest of the manor. 

“Rond de jambe!”

 

Practice, rehearsal, practice! Three weeks of the grueling pattern and Belle was muscle from scalp to toes, but not for lack of eating –Gold was meticulous about her eating habits and every meal was exquisite from start to finish. If too much was left on her plate, the corner of his jaw would flinch and a death welcoming practice inevitably followed. 

Belle stopped abruptly mid-turn, rubbed her glistening brow with trembling hands, and took a deep breath with her back to her teacher. 

“Ballet is more than perfectly pointed feet and airy jumps, Ballerina! What you feel in your heart will effect your movements. Where is your passion? Where is your heart?” Gold had positioned himself directly in front of her, perfectly polished shoe to satin slipper. His breath was warm against her forehead and every breath she inhaled was mingled with cedar and musk. He tilted her chin with the crook of his index finger until her lids opened and her eyes met his. “What do you feel?” 

For an instant, she thought he would kiss her; but he didn’t move. Instead, he steadily held her gaze and searched the depths of her eyes for an answer. She didn’t have one. She had never before felt passion for anything or anyone. She enjoyed the ballet, the music, her life –but did she feel passionately about them? She didn’t know. She couldn’t think. 

After a moment more he let go and then he was gone. She didn’t know how long she stood there, but it was late enough into the night that Hopper swung an arm in the door and flipped off the hall lights without thinking it might be inhabited. And still she didn’t move. Tears began to slip silently down her cheeks and her breath broke into an uneven repetition. The soft tapping of cane and foot stole up behind her and a gentle, but firm hand on her lower back began to guide her slowly up the stairs to her bed. Through blurring vision she saw Andre Rochon Gold kneel and gently lift her pointe slippers. Satin ties were patiently unwound from her ankles with smooth, steady hands. First her left, then her right foot was bared from its satin cage until they rested lightly in the plain of his hands. His thumbs tenderly brushed the roof of her arch before he delicately placed them on the bed and quietly padded out the door.


	4. Le Grand Vefour

Morning washed away all traces of what happened the night before and early practice was just as grueling as ever. The next five days didn’t reveal any repeat of the tenderness Gold had shown that one night and Belle fell back into the familiarity of their taxing routine. His tirades were beastly: her pirouettes were too mechanical; her coup-de-pied too lax; her emboite had no enthusiasm. Belle stood her ground and never quit and the silence that followed her rond de jambe spoke volumes to her heart. By the end of her fourth week she had better control and greater energy than she could ever have hoped for.

“I thought we’d go out tonight,” Gold stated simply with a sideways glance.

Belle, relieved at the idea of a break from their harrowing routine, responded with a bright smile. “Sounds good. I’ll just be a minute.”

They were driving towards the heart of Paris that evening. Hopper made a few sharp twists and turns down the narrow roads until they’d pulled up to Le Grand Vefour. Belle’s stomach twisted in an uncomfortable knot. She flushed suddenly at the realization that she’d never set foot in a place this elegant before and was grossly underdressed for the occasion in her simple, outdated wool dress and faded trench.

“I really appreciate this,” she began hesitantly, “but…uh…I don’t think I’m dressed appropriately for…”

“Ah, well I thought you might want…these.” Gold opened the door and Hopper passed him one large and then one medium cardboard box, which Gold quickly placed on the leather seat beside her and slid out the door, promptly shutting it behind him. 

Belle read Coco Chanel on the cream colored lid of the largest box. Nestled in layers of white tissue was a black chiffon dress with a deep V décolleté and an impossibly soft silk slip beneath. It felt like second skin and fell to the curve of her knee. She slipped on the thin patent belt and reached for the second box. Matching pumps of intricately wound, impossibly supple leather completed the ensemble. Her canvas tote was much too casual and the dress had no pockets so she opted instead for a quick glance in the mirror to swipe on a layer of gloss and pluck out the hair tie that trapped her curls. 

Monsieur Gold was talking quietly with Hopper outside the restaurant entrance but they both looked up when she exited. Hopper’s face displayed unabashed appreciation but Gold’s was a swiftly fleeting montage of surprise, wonder, pride, and something deeper…lust. Pride was the one he comfortably settled into and shaking off his coat he quickly placed it around her shoulders against the crisp wind for the remaining steps into Restaurant Vefour. 

It took her breath away! Elaborate silk paintings in the style of Louis XVI covered the walls and ceilings. Tables were dressed in starched white linens, crimson velvet banquettes lined the walls, lace curtains filtered light from the Palais Royal gardens and clusters of elegant flowers adorned every place setting. Andre Rochon Gold belonged in this milieu. He moved with confidence towards their prepared table and dropped comfortably in the preferred slender gilt back chair. Belle’s chiffon felt like armor in this alien palace of 18th century glamour. 

An amuse-bouche of chilled beetroot and fennel soup was served first to wet their palates for the following courses of foie gras de canard, (duck foie gras in a watermelon terrine) and then the main course of filet d’agneau à la surriette (filet of lamb wrapped in spinach leaf). An intimidating cheese board of soft and firm varieties succeeded the lamb. The restaurant was a hum of activity that didn’t encourage quiet conversation. It was brimming with the elite of Parisian society. Several servers knew Monsieur Gold by name, taking opportunities throughout the meal to great him. The entire experience was a seduction of aromas, textures and flavors. When dessert was served the noise in their section had died down enough for them to hear one another. 

Gold grinned like a Cheshire cat as the plates were settled in front of them. 

“I noticed your affinity for chocolate at the café on the Rue de Charonne.” 

So he remembered. Belle blushed from collarbone to hairline, but the dessert was a glorious distraction and she couldn’t help but gasp at the exquisite round chocolate mousse tower with a lace hazelnut cookie and scoop of salted caramel ice cream. By the time they’d brought the delicate display of mignardises and complimenting café noir, she couldn’t take another bite. 

“Bonne soirée mes amis!” Jefferson’s winning smile lit up his comical face. He drew up a chair and signaled the sommelier to bring him his preference. “I didn’t know you would be here. You should have invited me!” he playfully chided. Gold snorted in annoyed response but Belle couldn’t help but smile. Jefferson, never dull and ever the jester, able to elicit a response from anyone.

“So how are you doing, My Dear Belle? Surviving the monstrous tantrums of this vile, fire-breathing beast?” 

“You’re an idiot.” Gold grumbled with an impatient roll of his eyes.

“Moi?” Jefferson feigned shock and awe with dramatic grandeur. “Why, Proffereur, I’ve only ever worshiped the ground you walk on! How you could you speak to me thus when I’m only plainly concerned over the health and welfare of our lovely lady?” Jefferson winked wickedly at Belle.

Gold’s retort was a cross between a snort and a growl but there was no disgust or true vexation in his face. Jefferson prattled cheerfully through their café noir about the group of friends he’d come to dine with, changes Madame Vigneron was making to the existing repertoire and other things. Gold took repeated opportunities to observe Belle’s expressions and gestures while mildly listening to Jefferson’s jabber with uninterested tolerance. Eventually they rose to leave, Gold wrapped his coat snuggly around Belle’s small frame, drawing a raised brow from Jefferson, but the boy wisely said nothing and smilingly insisted on walking them out the door. 

The entry was flooded with flashing lights and paparazzi. They blocked the entrance/exit doors, forcing the three to stand aside while a tall, sumptuous brunette drenched in exquisite floor-length fur breezed through the double doors. She posed indulgently for the cameras before turning towards them. Recognition lit her features followed by a flash of something hostile Belle couldn’t begin to understand. Her lips curled into a lascivious grin and her dark eyes drank in their appearance from head to toe, resting repeatedly on Gold. When she spoke, he was the only one she acknowledged. 

“Andre!” The woman purred intimately but loud enough for the surrounding crowds to hear, “I’ve missed you. What have you been busying yourself with?” she said, directing a cursory glance toward Belle.

“Um, let’s see…” an obnoxious smile painted Jefferson’s face. “Avoiding the easily bought tabloids pandering their inflammatory tales spun by man-eating, narcissistic, rumor-mongering whores?” 

Regina murdered Jefferson with a savage glare and placed a perfectly manicured hand on Gold’s sleeve, causing him to visibly bristled. “Don’t be a stranger, Andre. I’m sure I won’t be.” And she swept through the inner doors, into the bustle and chatter of Le Grand Vefour.

Jefferson’s face, so dramatically rendering comic bemusement a moment before was now grave and thoughtful. Like a dragon in an iron cage, Gold’s eyes seethed with barely suppressed wrath. He didn’t speak; didn’t look back. Gripping Belle’s hand tightly in his own he pulled her swiftly out the doors and minutes later they were seated in the car, driving home. 

Belle couldn’t sleep. The clock on her bedside table glared 2:30 in garish red numbers. Maybe she needed some water. Tucking her thin robe around her she padded as softly as possible down the stairs and rear hall towards Marco’s kitchen. She was only halfway there when noises from a cracked door on her left arrested her attention. Belle hadn’t had time to explore the entire house yet. The room where the noise was coming from was one of these rooms. Without knowing what to expect she sucked in a breath and timidly pushed the door open. Walls and ceiling were covered with the house’s consistent dark wood paneling; however, half of the ones in this room were lined with ornately carved bookshelves stuffed to capacity with books and papers in no particular order. What Belle now recognized as obviously the study had an alluring collection of leather armchairs and couches that beckoned invitingly to her. Across from where she stood the floor rose up a foot in a circle before stately arched windows, displaying a grand piano buried under mounds of sheet music and various books.

Gold was hunched over a lap full of paperwork to her left, in an armchair that basked in the last heat of a dying fire. He didn’t notice her so she delicately cleared her throat. It worked. He looked up bewildered and unkempt, with parts of his hair sticking up in random directions, his grey silk dress shirt unbuttoned twice at the collar and his ominous suit jacket nowhere to be found. 

“I…uh…couldn’t sleep.” She felt silly and invasive now that she was standing here and she wished regretfully that she’d just gotten her water and gone back to bed. Gold’s eyes were strained and red, worry had settled in the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t look angry that she was here. In fact, he looked…relieved? 

Belle attempted a small smile and stepped inside. Gold turned and limped towards a nearby chair, which he dragged to the empty space beside him facing the fireplace. Belle curled up in it without hesitation, tucking her feet close around her. Gold stared at her for a moment more before reoccupying his own seat. 

“I was just completing some business. I’m a bit behind, if truth be told.” His excuse rambled fluidly from his lips but Belle knew there was more to this sleeplessness than his work. It wasn’t really her business so she bit her lip in deliberation. “What is it?” He asked with an amused twitch of his brow.

Belle didn’t want to cause him discomfort, but she did have questions about the evening so she preceded with slow caution. “The woman…at the restaurant…she seemed…”

“Damnable, nefarious, insidious, depraved?” 

“She seemed jealous.” 

Gold’s brow shot up in unexpected amusement, then his eyes took on a subtler but deeply roguish gleam that began examining her own with unveiled curiosity. Belle twisted her fingers nervously under his intense, scrutinizing gaze but Gold took his time, clearly enjoying her nervous fluttering and utter discomfort.

When he answered, his voice was much deeper and softer than she’d ever heard it before. “She’d like everyone to think that we’re…close, but that’s nowhere near the truth. I’m a name that gave her rise to fame and fleeting fame is all she is.” Gold leaned forward, caught her eyes with a look of naked sincerity and finished. “You will surpass her, outwit and outshine her. You are the inevitable future of ballet.” 

His eyes continued to delve with steady pressure into her soul. What he saw in her was written in the space between them. She was amazing, talented and capable. He willed her to believe it, accept it, understand it. The fire had long since died to a handful of glowing embers. Gold slowly stood and pushed his paperwork into a semblance of order before limping swiftly to a large desk behind him and leaving it there. Belle stretched and moved to leave. 

“Good night.”

“Good night, Belle.”


	5. Pas de Deux

Paris street lamps gave off a milky glow in the evening hour Monsieur Gold left his habitual café for the business office he kept less than a mile away. He maintained an invigorating pace for someone who nursed a cane; but Gold was in no mood to heed his body’s feeble protestations. No, right now he needed a clear head and compliant muscles. Another right turn completely hid him in the shadow of a narrow alley. The bumbling, short-winded prowler staggered into the narrow passage with a confused, frustrated look on his face. Gold smirked in disgust and whipped his cane around the thick-necked cretin, pulling him up sharply against his grey striped suit. As the stupid fool struggled against the cane’s unflinching pressure, Gold hissed questions between clenched teeth.

“Who are you? Don’t you think I know you’ve been following Belle? I’ve seen you at least a dozen times around the ballet, my office –at my home,” Gold tightened the canes pressure with both hands mercilessly around the stranger’s throat with every word. The dolt writhed beneath him and then suddenly pointed something over his shoulder, directly at Gold’s face.

“Damn it!” Gold roared, immediately loosing his hold as he stumbled back against the wall in burning agony and cursed the sound of rapidly fading steps.

What kind of idiot criminal used pepper spray? Pepper spray was for grandmothers and helpless little girls –not 250 lb. criminals! In a manner of minutes he’d speed-dialed Hopper at the office and the comforting sound of screeching wheels arrested his attention as the town car rolled into the alley.

Gold didn’t come to dinner, Hopper gave his excuses –business that couldn’t wait etc. Belle pondered at her disappointment and then realized that she was a bit lonely this evening. She wished Hopper would stay to share dinner with her but she knew he never would. Both Hopper and Marco never ate in the dining room. She knew it would make them feel awkward if she pressed the matter. She briefly considered whisking her plate away to the cozy kitchen but instead swallowed a few more bites and went up to her room. She wondered if Marie Michel and Ruby might be available for a café noir.

Both girls had dates lined up so they gave her their regrets and promised rain checks soon. Belle thought about Gaston. He was the only man she’d ever briefly dated –she wasn’t sorry it was over; truth be told, it was a relief. But then she thought about Marie Michel and Ruby –both girls were actively dating and happy as clams. Belle wondered if she should perhaps be a little more outgoing –make room in her life for a boyfriend. No, that wasn’t what she wanted. A strange little pang twinged in her heart at the thought. No, she wanted to be prima ballerina assoluta; the thought of all the time wasted, away from practice…away from him. She was tired; she just needed sleep. Belle glimpsed today’s mail on the corner of her bureau –probably junk. There were several advertisements, a dancewear catalogue, and a long white envelope with nothing but her name scrawled haphazardly in the center. Belle absently ran her finger under the flap and opened the tri-fold sheet.

_Belle,_

_I’m watching you make all the wrong choices. I want you in my life –I need you in my life, but seeing you makes me hurt. I wish you were never born! Your life is a mistake! I’ll make you see that._

Anonymous. The script was large and thick and shaky. Belle, trembling from head to toe slumped into her desk chair and swallowed the urge to scream. Who could hate her so much that they would wish she’d never been born? Who would threaten her like this? The paper fell from her outstretched arm and slid beneath the bed. She was glad it was out of sight; she could think better. What choices had she made that would cause this kind of outburst? There was only one person she knew was angry with her, but she hadn’t seen him in weeks.

It was an infinite, sleepless night and Gold was familiarly unrelenting at morning practice but Belle wasn’t there, not really –she was back in her room, rereading the scrap under her bed.

“Non! Stop –just stop!” Gold’s cane hammered the ground and fractured her thoughts. “Where are you?” He bellowed. “Why did you even come here this morning?” His intense, narrow gaze drilling holes in her eyes, every vein of suppressed impatience, straining through the walls of his neck.

She felt shame, brief and fleeting. She couldn’t tell him –could she? But who else could she tell? This was his home –whoever had delivered the note, had trespassed on his property. He had a right to know. What if they wanted to hurt him too…or Hopper…or Marco? And he cared for her a little –didn’t he? He would want to help, she knew.

“I…was bothered by something. It was…I…” Her courage failed her. She’d been on her own for so long she couldn’t make her problems somebody else’s. “I’m sorry. I’m better now. Where should I begin?”

Gold looked confused and unconvinced. His acute gaze took in the trembling lip, the nervous fingers, the false smile. Was it possible she knew someone had been trailing her? “No, she would surely have told him,” he reasoned away. Perhaps he was pushing her too hard today. Usually he was aware of the demanding pressure he thrust on his students but he’d been distracted by that pepper-spraying buffoon. He may have taken practice a bit too far today.

With a dismissive wave of his hand and a few words he dismissed her poor performance and instead relaxed into one of his rare lopsided grins. “You’re ready for pas de deux. Jefferson will be here tomorrow afternoon so you can start becoming accustomed to a partner.”

Belle visibly paled. “Are you sure I’m ready for that?” Her long lashes fluttered down in that maddening mannerism she adopted when she was flustered. It always disquieted his heart and left him slightly flustered. “I don’t feel like I am.”

The truth was, she’d been ready to take this step a week ago, but for some repressed reason Gold wasn’t yet willing for the handsome idiot to turn about the floor with her. “You’ll never _feel_ ready until you simply take the first steps to do it.” He’d made the decision; he was going to stick to it.

Belle nodded submissively. He knew better of course, but Jefferson was leagues beyond her –wasn’t he? Was it truly possible she was ready for this? Gold had so much faith in her. She relied on his unshakeable assurance. She resolved not to question this decision. She needed to trust him –rest in his belief. He’d always known best.

“Alright,” she conceded –more to herself than to him.

Two-thirty and Belle wasn’t sleeping again –no, she was leaping across the practice hall, coercing every muscle into faultless submission. She wouldn’t meet this new challenge unprepared. Every correction he’d pitched at her propelled her forward. She heard each one in her head with every movement. She wasn’t tired, she wasn’t worried –she was at peace. This was her world…their world –for she had someone to share it with now. She wondered if he’d ever felt this rush –this unearthly, supernatural fire she was sampling right now. She wanted nothing more than to go on like this forever–always moving, always spinning, always flying, always being this alive!

He drank in every sweep, every hurdle, every extension, every fleeting expression on her enraptured face. She was in a utopia of her own, realizing a passion she’d never tasted before. He wouldn’t break it for the world so he stood as if turned to stone on the brink of heaven, breathing cautious, shallow whispers of hallowed air.

 

Hopper had to wake her in the morning. Apparently utopia didn’t come without a price. Half awake she shuffled to the bathroom, performed a lazy toilette, wiggled into her tights and leotard and threw on a large blue sweater. Today’s forecast promised a blizzard through the weekend but right now Belle smiled at the defiant blue skies outside her window.

If Gold was irritated by her tardiness he didn’t show it. He sipped his café au lait with a blasé air and skimmed his morning paper. Belle’s muscles still ached from the pitiless drill she’d given them yesterday, but her spirits were much improved, so her nervy hope carried her into the practice hall behind her teacher.

“There are a few basic, foundational things I should show you before this afternoon.” Gold tossed his cane towards the opposite wall, out of their way and then motioned for her to step forward. He turned her back to his chest and placed his left hand on her abdomen. It shouldn’t have affected her, but it did. Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly…almost. Gold released a slow, controlled breath.

“Keep your abdominals tight –always actively engaged.” His right hand slipped around to rest lightly on her collarbone, slowly climbing the curve of her throat and tilting her chin up. “Never look down. Regardless of what happens.” Both of his hands gently but firmly spanned her waist. “Trust…trust that your partner will maintain your balance-keep you _safe_.” The last word fell to a hoarse whisper below her ear just before she was very firmly lifted.

Belle felt the blood race through her veins in the familiar rush of the night before when Andre Gold tucked her against his side, lifting, tipping, balancing her in his arms; all his strength and pressure focused on his healthy leg. If he was in pain, she never saw it –rapt enjoyment was on his face. Belle settled into his possession, accepting and responding, allowing him to guide her in and out of his arms. He was tasting her passion, experiencing her paradise. Together they shut out the world and there was nothing but their joined movements. When the music died he let her go and Belle felt the loss keenly.

The drive to the theater was quiet but comfortable at his side. She felt a wall had been breached and the utter contentment was blissful. Belle clenched her coat pocket tightly against her side, debating the consequences of inaction. When the car slowed she met his eyes bravely, sighed softly and pressed the letter into his hand before exiting the car.


	6. Out On The Town

Hopper all but stopped the town car a half-mile from the theater, blinded by ruthless flurries gathering steady momentum around them. The determined crease of Gold’s brow kept him inching at a snail’s pace behind a train of cars, barely breaking five miles-per-hour. For the entire forty-five minutes it had taken them to drive fourteen blocks, Monsieur Gold had made a steady pattern of dialing his cell phone, cursing, and savagely hitting his head against the leather seat. Hopper wisely said nothing.

“That’s enough! Let me out!” Without waiting for a complete stop, Gold already had the wind rushing through the open car door.

“Wait, Sir! Let me go with you! I’ll just be a…” But Gold hadn’t waited. He was already an inky blur in a storm as stubborn and ferocious as the man himself. Slipping and scuffling along, he followed the paralyzed line of cars up the boulevard.

Belle bit her lip in contemplation. It was clear the storm wasn’t going to let up any time soon, if anything it had grown in these last minutes she’d stood by the glass doors, mesmerized by its hostile force. It would be virtually impossible for Hopper to drive in now. She should have taken Marie and Ruby up on their offer to wait it out a short drive away at their old flat. A few minutes more and the rest of the crew would be packed up and out the door, leaving her alone or worse…not alone. There was still the letter to consider. With a few tucks and tugs at her old coat she blew out the door. Freezing wind slapped her cheeks crimson and mocked her stubborn progress. Each step hurt more than the last until breathing was a rebellious decision Belle was making over and over again. Even in the storm’s complete fury she felt something press from the shadows closer towards her. She was struggling harder now –pushing through the full force of God, hoping for a glimpse of the bookstore she knew was nearby. Even the blizzard couldn’t disguise the dark smudge gaining speed behind her. Panic flooded her mind and tears froze on her lashes. Her scream was muted in a wall of soft wool.

Gold clutched her tightly to his chest; enveloped her shivering frame in the folds of his coat. He stood staunchly, immovable against the terror whipping around them and watched the figure retreat into white oblivion.

Hours later she sat wrapped in mountains of soft down with her feet propped up before the study’s generous fire. Marco had ladled a sea of warm broth down her throat while Hopper paced nervously with the doctor on the phone. Her legs and arms burned where Gold’s hands had rubbed and squeezed and willed blood to flow back into her limbs. Now he sat in silent vigil at her side, still damp from the knee down but free of his soaked coat and shoes. She wanted to thank him, thank them all but her eyelids were heavy and her body relaxed into sleep.

Three days later the storm finally abated ushering in her cheeky cavalier, complete with five suitcases and an endless supply of scampish remarks. Gold scowled darkly at the rogue’s impertinent invasion and gave his protégé sound grief for the rest of the evening. Jefferson only laughed it off with jovial sarcasm about not wanting to be snowed away from his responsibilities again.

Belle scolded her heartsick remembrance when the first few turns and jetés landed her in the arms of Jefferson Arnaud and not Andre Gold. Jefferson moved with graceful, capable ease and his constant encouragement and communication made their pairing a comfortable one, greatly easing her transition to pas de deux. Belle struggled continuously with the difference between supported and unsupported grande jeté eliciting repeated tirades from her teacher and merciless twitting from Jefferson, but after awhile almost every partnering twist and turn came more easily to her.

Evenings were playful and entertaining with Jefferson staying at the manor, but beneath her mirth, Belle missed the quiet, intimate evenings alone with Monsieur Gold. They’d developed a cozy habit of reading their books by the large fire in the study or listening to classical music together. Now their evenings were spent in the sitting room. Here, the tufted leather furniture and paneled walls were much the same but the atmosphere lacked the intimate, lived-in feel Gold’s scattered papers and books gave.

Around one in the morning Belle woke to muffled voices and distant music. Wrapped in her little robe she followed the growing noises downstairs to the study. Gold was seated at the grand piano, his fingers coaxing beautiful melodious notes from the black and white keys. Hopper and Marco were lounging congenially in nearby chairs with their backs to the door. No one seemed to notice her, so she slipped into the closest sofa and listened raptly to familiar operettas and other more solemn works by Chopin, Debussy and Rachmaninoff. An hour must have passed in enraptured contentment before quiet consumed the room and she realized with a start that she was the only listener left and Gold was no longer playing but standing over her with an impish grin on his face.

“You should be asleep.”

Belle gave a cat like stretch and languid smile in response. With a little sigh, Gold had replaced her foot space at the end of the sofa. He reclined his head back with an arm around the back of the seat and lazily rubbed the scruff at his throat. Neither of them said anything for a while, content to just be alone in their little haven of affable peace. It was sleepiness and the desire not to break away from the moment that pivoted Belle’s body around until her head was pillowed in Gold’s shoulder and his right arm had slipped around her. It was as right as breathing.

Hopper found them there in the morning. Belle’s head had slipped to Gold’s lap but his arm still encircled her while he snored softly –her shield against the world even in sleep. Hopper let them know that Jefferson had left early to run errands in the city before he would meet up with Belle at the theater.

At breakfast Monsieur Gold announced that there wouldn’t be practice or theater today. He’d already made the appropriate calls.

“You’re in need of a few things,” he stated plainly. There was no way he was going to let her be caught unprepared again in this winter weather. She needed warmer clothing. He berated himself for not thinking of it sooner; without an income she wouldn’t be able to purchase necessary items for herself. Of course Hopper had scene to the day-to-day things but coats and good quality shoes weren’t on that list. Belle had kept a part-time job at a bookstore not far from the theater, but when she came to live with him he’d made her give it up –hoarding the precious hours for training. Belle was also progressing rapidly in their art; she would be ready in a few months for auditions. Gold knew what star quality looked like –he’d created them before. Prima ballerina assoluta wasn’t just personified technique –it was style and elegance and image.

An hour later they were in the town car navigating the narrow streets of downtown Paris. Belle’s protests were like water on rock. Gold purchased whatever he thought was best despite her strongest arguments. In the 6th arrondissement he purchased elegant tunic dresses from Vanessa Bruno and feminine ensembles from Tara Jarmon. In the 4th he chose some Paule Ka skirts of sheer silk paired with Chloé blouses. By noon Hopper had joined them as an extra set of hands running to and from the car; he and Gold argued over an assortment of Maje blazers while Belle stood pointlessly by, fingering a few silk scarves, which later mysteriously made an appearance at home. They lunched on mixed salad greens, quenelles, and raspberry soufflés at Aux Lyonnais before hunting down a winter coat that met Gold’s exacting specifications. He settled on an elegant crimson Balenciaga that draped in luxurious folds around her petite frame. Wrapped snuggly against the cold, Belle’s spirits began to improve.

With light hearts Gold, Belle and Hopper attacked famed Boutiques throughout Paris in search of handbags, shoes and other accessories. At Yves Saint Laurent Gold made a personal purchase of a soft leather briefcase. Christian Louboutin boots, Robert Clergerie pumps, and two Lanvin gowns were added to the growing stockpile of boxes and bags flooding the town car. Along Rue François Miron, Gold paused awkwardly. His face alternately flushed and paled as he searched for the right words. Belle by now had become quite the obedient puppy dog, following blindly behind her master with an abdicated air. She’d never before witnessed her teacher so unsettled. It took a few minutes before she registered the store sign a few paces away and realized with burning cheeks what his dilemma had been. Gold tucked a slick, black card into her palm and turned without a word toward Hopper and the waiting car. If her coat had been any indication, it would take little imagination to guess what state her intimates might be in.

It took Hopper 4 trips to cart in the packages from their expedition. Belle carelessly shoved aside a Hermès bag and large Lanvin box before sprawling exhaustedly across the foot of her bed. She had an hour and a half before their evening meal and she was going to soak up every minute of it –literally. With a spark of last minute inspiration Belle filled up the large tub in her bathroom with scented salts and steamy water and sank happily into oblivion.

Jefferson was a merciless scold at dinner, accusing the others of excluding him from all the fun; but no one else seemed to care. No amount of pouting could deflate the three of them and the unexpected delight they’d shared from their day out on the town.

 

“La police? Yes, I’d like to report a threatening letter I’ve received at my home….Yes I see…No, we don’t _know who_ it’s from,” Gold’s patience began to recede, “that’s why I’ve called you…Yes, I see. No, Dearie, that’s quite enough. Thank you.”

Click. Gold crushed the furrow of his brow with a clenched fist before dialing a second number.

“Oui. Sécurité?” At least at the theater he could make sure extra eyes and ears would be on their guard for Belle’s safety even if the damned gendarmes were no help at home. Gold had his own preference for dealing with the prowler anyways. Having police out of the way might achieve _better results_ in the long run. Gold didn’t plan to be caught off guard a second time. Opening the center desk drawer, he slowly, determinedly pulled out a handgun.


	7. Temporary

_Belle,_

_I remember the first time I held you. It was right, but I didn’t realize that at the time. Gold can’t give you the life you want. That kind of life isn’t right for you and you know it…you belong to me._

 

It was the same thick, languid script and conspicuous anonymity. Fury pulsed through Belle’s veins and the letter was bitterly discarded in a crumpled mass on the floor. How dare they assume she belongs to them! This person presumed to understand her intimately in a way she’d only gifted to precious few. She wanted to scrub the memory of those hateful words from her life.

An avalanche of memories washed over her mind –thoughts she’d long since buried of the parents who had left her so young, the orphanage where her face was one of the hundreds of broken lives no one was willing to remember; her teen years working part-time at the bookstore and the little kindness she’d found there; and finally meeting Gaston who introduced her to Madame Vigneron and gave her a purpose she wasn’t aware she could have. Of course nothing had ever come without a price –Gaston expected her companionship regularly which she reluctantly gave to him. She had owed him so much and even if she sometimes had to imagine away the rot of his booze-soured breath and the way he made no attempt at humanizing their interaction, still, he gave her food and shelter and she was grateful for these little things. It was a relief when his interest in her waned and she was reduced to house-keeper and occasional fulfillment. Then she had been free to practice during the late hours he was gone and hone her talent into something Madame Vigneron and her peers in the corps could be proud of.

Belle glanced around the backstage. It was riddled with people preparing for tonight’s performance. Belle should be getting ready too, but she needed to be away from the dressing room right now. How had he found her here of all places? This area was better secured than the rest of the theater now that Monsieur Gold’s influence had put the security on high alert –but then they’d breached the intimacy of her own room at Monsieur Gold’s manor as well.

Ruby and Marie Michel were merrily chatting with Jefferson and a few others; making plans for after the performance. Madame Vigneron was bustling about –mercilessly scolding anyone in her path on her quest for tonight’s perfection. On the far side of the stage Gaston Gautier was shamelessly lip-locked with a new redheaded ballerina in the partial shadow of a large prop.

“Belle Dupont?”

“Yes?” A petite blond, Belle perceived to be only a few years older than herself, with candid blue eyes and a shaky smile had tapped her on the shoulder.

“Emma –Emma Cygne,” the woman stated, offering Belle a firm handshake. “I’m directeur adjoint of sécurité here at le théâtre. I wanted to let you know that we plan on doing all we can to make you safe here.”

“ _Too little, too late_ ,” Belle thought wearily, but she managed a weak grin and nod. Then she chose to safely change the subject. “Are you new…that is…I don’t remember seeing you around here before?” Belle offered another smile she hoped held a smidge more sincerity. Emma Cygne took the bait with discerning wisdom.

“Oui. I only started last week. I’m actually from New York.”

“Wow, what a long way?” A spark of genuine interest briefly drew out the real Belle. “Did you just move here? Your accent is so –well…believable?” Belle added a little half-hearted chuckle.

Emma relaxed into the heels of her boots, “I grew up in France, but I left for America when I turned eighteen. Now I’m back with my family.” Emma thumbed the air towards Marie Michel and Ruby.

“Oh! Are you related to…”

“Marie Michel Blanc is my best friend. We’re not strictly family, but I grew up with her. She got me the job here and gave me a room in their flat.” Emma grinned knowingly. “It’s a cozy room.”

“Yes, it was.” Belle smiled genuinely this time. The duo was swarmed by Marie Michel and the others and talk breezed into a cheerful medley of introductions and merry jabber until Madame Vigneron broke up their little flock and breathless hustle ensued.

Gold took up his honored seat and Belle unabashedly fought for glimpses of him. He was speaking politely to a couple at his right with relaxed, familiar gestures. His movements were like a dance, fluid, studied, fascinating. Belle trailed the lines of his tailored tuxedo, with satin peaked lapels and black waistcoat. Like so many suits before it, it was a testimony of taste and dignity.

Nothing ever trespassed her lines of focus reserved for the stage. Her mind was a pattern of steps, stretches and premeditated motion. She lived for the orchestra, the lights, and the language of movement. 3 months of discipline, at the hand of her benefactor left her a striking example of coolly poised balance. Her movements were perfection; her concentration curbed toward flawless technique and this was all she danced for…until she saw his eyes. And then oh so softly -so subtly she began to move and play for the adoration and light she found there and her world began to shift, and her emotions began to stir, and the lights and music were only the distant stars in a much bigger picture where he was the sun and she was the earth revolving around him with unmitigated devotion.

The curtain came down and the house stood up, but Belle was back on earth. Backstage her colleagues were chattering, crowding around and praising her. Belle smiled politely and snuck away for another glimpse at him. He hadn’t moved. His brow was creased in confusion and his knuckles were white with pressure on his gilded cane. He didn’t look happy and Belle’s heart stopped its wild flutter for a whisper until he glanced up and caught her eyes. Then, it was there again! She hadn’t imagined it then! They were back in their own universe and he was pleased…he was puzzled, but he was definitely pleased. Everything in her life might be a topsy-turvy muddle right now, but not when he looked at her. Her performance had pleased him and somehow those moments of shifting change had mystified them both, but he wasn’t pushing her away and that was everything!

After Belle had changed, Madame Vigneron pulled her into her office.

“As you know, Belle, Mademoiselle Sol, our prima ballerina assoluta, will be getting married this summer and moving to America. This will be her last season here. I want you to try out for the position. I think you’re ready for it –if not yet,” Madame shrugged as she moved out from behind her desk, “you will be soon. I know you’ve been training with Jefferson so if you’re chosen he will be your cavalier. That, should make things quite a smooth transition for you.” Madame positioned two protective hands on Belle’s shoulders. “There will be _other_ candidates. Mademoiselle Regina Prevot has moved back to Paris and has already been in contact with the board to rally their support, but I believe _you_ should be our next prima ballerina. I’ve never seen you dance with such passion, mon chaton.” Belle smiled at the familiar pet name Madame used only with her favored pupils. “You will think about it, oui?”

Belle promised and left to gather her things from the dressing room.

 

Gold toed the remnants of snow on the cement step of the backstage entrance, as he waited patiently for Belle to emerge. He made a silent note to have the bulb replaced in the feeble, blinking light on the outer wall. This was where he’d clobbered that fool, boyfriend of hers. He wasn’t going to see another perpetrator take advantage of the shadows in this back alley. The headlights of the town car bounced off of an obscure figure a couple paces away. Hopper’s click of the car’s brights lit up the remaining shadow scampering away and Gold saw plainly the damned coward he’d nearly strangled in the street a month ago. With agility reserved for men half his age, Gold miraculously closed the gap between them, arrested the dolt in a grip of iron and turned him to face the light. He was older than Gold had remembered and very plainly poor. His face was a mixture of shame, hatred and cowardice. Gold almost thought him too pathetic for a thrashing but gripped the man’s lapels for good measure before jerking him to his knees.

“Take your hands out of your damn pockets! Now, what the hell do you want?”

The wretch wormed miserably in Gold’s vice-like grip. By now, Hopper had taken up position at Gold’s side and both men eyed the villain with thin restraint.

“What’s your name?” Gold barked.

“Maurice!” The miserable cad choked with a pathetic whimper. “I’m…Belle’s father.” Gold’s grip faltered a little, but not enough for Maurice to snake away and certainly not enough for him to feel less threatened. Gold’s eyes were pools of rage when he searched for intent in the man’s face. Maurice began to sob in childlike quivers, “I just wanted to see her. I saw the picture in the paper where she was talking to Madame Prevot. I thought she might want to see me.”

“Why didn’t you come to the house like a man instead of following her in the dark? You frightened her to death with your damn letters!”

“I…”

Gold didn’t give him a chance to respond. He yanked Maurice up from his knees until they were eye to eye and Gold got a strong whiff of fresh liquor on the man’s coat.

“What do you want? Money?”

Maurice reddened shamefully and didn’t answer.

“How much? How much did you expect I’d give you? You know she doesn’t have anything –so you thought you’d squeeze something out of me.” Gold’s grip trembled with rage at the mouse in front of him. How could Belle, true, honest and lovely have come from something so deplorable? He thanked his lucky stars he’d found this wretch before he’d gotten to her. He didn’t want his Belle anywhere near this man. Gold debated having the cur thrown in prison. Instead with a deep, gravely snarl he harshly shoved the man backwards.

As Maurice struggled drunkenly to his feet, Gold snatched up his cane and gripped the handle with barely restrained fury.

“Don’t ever…EVER come near Belle again! Don’t follow her, talk to her, or in any other way attempt to communicate with her or I’ll have you arrested.”

Maurice nodded mutely and hobbled down the narrow way.

 

Ruby, Marie, and Emma gave Belle warm hugs as they exited. Shoving the last of her things in her little duffle she nearly missed the thin, white envelope as it fluttered to the ground. Belle froze in terror. Was it possible, two in one day –and with Emma and the others so obviously present? How could anyone have snuck in here?

_Belle,_

_You’re nothing without me! Everything you are and everything you have is only temporary._

 

“Reading something?”

Belle jumped at Jefferson’s voice behind her. He reclined idly against the doorframe studying her with a vacant expression and a bemused quirk on his lips.

“Love letter? Hmmm?”

Belle shot him an intolerant glare. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Jefferson shrugged and stood up to let her pass. “You did excellent today. You’ve definitely begun the shining ascent to fame and fortune!” Jefferson’s mad lilt dropped an octave. “Be sure you remember how you got there or it won’t mean anything.”

He dropped a casual arm around Belle’s shoulders.

“After all, this part of life is only temporary, Belle.”


	8. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a fat chapter - my thank you, for each of your support.

“ _Temporary._ ”

It swung in mid-air with mocking acerbity as chills assaulted Belle’s spine. Her mind raced through the terrifying possibility. The vacant expression on her face and paler than normal complexion must have been noticeable as Jefferson called out to her again.

“Belle! Come on. You don’t want to keep the master waiting” He hunched in mocked servitude and smirked at her. “He may think I’ve stolen you away from him.” Jefferson turned to walk to the back exit and left Belle again with her thoughts, fears, and hyperbolic conclusions. She was at an impasse.

Jefferson was… well… Jefferson. He was fun and charismatic, flamboyant even. In all honesty, Belle doubted that he would even be interested in someone as insignificant as her. How could she go on like this –ride back in the same car as him, knowing that they were staying in the same house, being set-up to be partners: prima and cavalier. Hours of rehearsals, his hands around her body –holding, grasping, supporting, caressing; her mind spun as the anxiety of her realization nearly built to a climax. The shiver she felt simultaneously jolted her mind back to reality and her feet forward toward the exit. At least it was the weekend. Jefferson would leave for his flat tonight and not be back until Tuesday. Somehow over the next three days she would have to decide what to do. 

Gold dropped his Chesterfield coat in the hall and took long, purposeful strides toward his study. Shutting himself in with a glass of eau-de-vie, he eased into his leather armchair and shut out the headache that was the world today. Saturday and Sunday flew by in a whirlwind of image-building flourish with frequent outings to choice restaurants and elite events where Belle could shine in Parisian society. The aristocracy ate up her rare beauty, genteel manners and haute couture. The more invitations they accepted, the more invitations they received until Gold was bleeding boredom, longing hourly for the refuge of his wood and leather cave. Belle looked weary and strained but never complained. Her practice was focused and he no longer needed to berate her because she mastered each instruction with a tempered, unique grace she’d acquired outside of his design. 

She was a masterpiece, but not like he’d envisioned; no, Belle was a creature of her own cultivation. He certainly saw his influence in her, but only the things she allowed to be absorbed. She had endless patience for his tirades. She eagerly consumed his knowledge. She emulated his tastes and classical culture. She’d devoured his library and was quickly becoming his favorite philosopher in the long hours of the morning. A timid knock lifted his head from the chair back.

“Am I disturbing you?” Belle smiled sweetly around the mahogany door.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. “No, come in,” he said.

Gold tried not to feel like the world was perfect when she took up her chair in the winged seat across from him with her book. _Her chair_ –when had it become her chair? About the same time he’d noticed how the burgundy leather accentuated those deep roses in her cheeks and how the fire chose to send gleaming cascades of light through her chestnut ringlets. Gold felt wildly possessive of these late hours.

He was blissfully unapologetic about his decision to turn Jefferson out of the house this week. The rascal had stayed long enough and truthfully, she didn’t really need him here for every practice. At least that was what he chose to tell himself as he lazily regarded her through half lidded eyes. Belle needed rest and he would be sure she got it. Gold lifted his feet to share the ottoman with Belle’s fluffy blue slippers. Yes, the restoration of their nightly routine was a godsend. 

After an hour, Belle’s breathing grew steadier and her ebony lashes hid her lustrous blue eyes. Gold set his glass on the table beside her, leaned forward until her forehead was a fraction from his lips and fingered a stray glossy lock on her cheek between his thumb and forefinger.He shouldn’t be staring at her full, pink lips with longing; shouldn’t be imagining the sweetness he’d taste there and he definitely shouldn’t be closing the distance between them.

She didn’t breathe –she didn’t move for fear of breaking this moment. Intense longing stirred up from the depths of her soul and she silently pleaded for more of his touch.

When his lips touched hers it should have been simple, just two mouths meeting; but suddenly it was so much more. It began feather soft, barely a brush of his lips against hers, but then Belle met his pressure and increased it. It should have ended and never have been spoken about again; but when hearts are awakened and two souls who were meant to be together begin to intertwine, a memory is made and the spirit inhales its first breath of life.

Gold didn’t remember sliding to one knee –couldn’t recall when his hands gripped her shoulders, but he needed this –more of her, more of her sweetness, her goodness, her well of life. Belle swallowed his breaths with intense need.  She lost her hands in his hair, all her desire twisting and knotting itself in each strand, holding him prisoner against her mouth.

Neither of them saw it fall but they heard it. Gold’s forgotten glass shattered across the floor and like a bolt of lightning had struck between them, he fell from her grip. Reality and determination whitewashed the hunger and yearning on his face while she closed her eyes against it. He stood there silently for a moment before crushing the glass beneath his boots on his way out the door.  He told himself that she was only tired –that she’d regret this later –regret what he’d done. He needed to get away from this…before he couldn’t let go.

 

Her room was on the second floor with a perfect view of the front garden –that was why she noticed it the next morning -the foreign figure huddled behind the maple. She thought she saw…she thought… Belle slipped swiftly down the stairs, out the front door to the far side of the garden in the shadow of the mulberry.  He was crying on his knees in the grass. When she touched his shoulder the man that turned was pale and fearful –a mere shell of the person she remembered.

Since she was six-years-old Belle dreamed of being reunited with the father who left. This wasn’t how she pictured it, but things seldom turn out as we imagine them. In her daydreams she always knew what to say –always knew what he would say, but he said nothing. His mouth hung limply open while he struggled to his feet. Belle gripped his elbow and assisted him gently. His features were a pool of regret, fear, anger and so much sadness.

“I…just wanted to see you again,” he mumbled miserably. “Just wanted to make sure you were…okay. I should go now.”

“No!” Belle didn’t realize she hadn’t released his elbow until her fingers tightened and clutched his sleeve.

“Look! I know he doesn’t want me here! I just wanted to say…I’m sorry. I shoulda done more for you. But…” Maurice had run out of courage so he tugged his arm free and turned to leave.

“Please!” Belle pleaded but it didn’t matter, her father never turned around. Did he say “again”? Had he seen her recently?

 

“What the hell did you say to him, Gold? Tell me what you said to my father!” Belle crashed through the study door. She kneaded her tight white fists into his wool suit with a desperate shove. Holding steadily to his cane he reached a hand around to touch her back but Belle had already jerked away from him. She was trembling and crying and so very angry. Gold tensed his jaw and fixed her with steady, calm eyes.

He had anticipated this moment, but not quite this soon. The script he developed on the stage of his mind was somehow abridged. “He wanted to use you to get to me. He wanted my money. Did you see him Belle?” He took a cautious step to comfort her.

“Yes,” Belle hated that she was sobbing. She hated when he wrapped her in his arms and hated that she didn’t fight him off, “and he left because of you! I’ve wanted to speak with him for so long and then he…” Belle’s small frame quaked against his chest. He soothed her back with long smooth strokes but it was wrong. Suddenly his touch felt so wrong.

“He wants to use you, Belle. Don’t you see that?” No, she didn’t _see that_! All she knew was that Gold had pushed him away.

“You knew! You knew he was looking for me and you never told me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Gold rolled his neck in frustration. “I told you, Belle. He wanted to use you. He wanted to use you to get money out of me. I won’t be played, Belle.”

“Is that what you think? Do you think I’m playing you? Using the Great Andre Rochon Gold for all he’s worth!” Belle suddenly felt very small in this grand house –so very out of place.

“I don’t think _you_ , have done anything! What about the letters? Don’t they worry you at all?” This argument was foolish. She should be thanking him for keeping that wretch away –not standing there judging him as if he’d crushed her. “Belle, you need to stay away from him.”

“He’s my father! I can’t just walk away from him.” Belle took a minute to compose herself and stand firm on her own two feet. “I’m not asking you for _anything_! But I will try to help him.”

“No!” Gold closed the space between them until he arched over her like an enraged animal, gripping her arm with reckless pressure. “He’s dangerous! He’s been following you for months. You need to stay away from him…” he paused to calculate the cost of these next words “…or I’ll make sure he stays away from you!” Gold was outright furious now. Why couldn’t the girl listen to reason? Why was she being so damn stubborn about a man who was never there for her?

Belle took a deep breath and met his eyes. “It’s nearly the end of the season. I think it’s time for me…to move out.”

Gold couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Of course she couldn’t leave! This was all a ridiculous muddle. She needed to train for auditions! Whether or not she was now capable of doing that without him didn’t matter. He intended to be there. The fury raged inside, but his feelings for her betrayed him as he choked out a simple “No.”

Belle looked at him, his face was inflamed with rage and determination and something else she couldn’t face right then, so she turned without another word and walked away. 

 

“You’re sure you don’t mind me staying?” Belle asked for the fifth time as Marie Michel and Emma snatched up her bags and arranged them in a corner of the living room.

“Belle! That’s a ridiculous question. Stop asking! Of course you can stay here for as long as you need to.” Ruby gave Belle a quick squeeze before leaving to grab some sheets.

“Belle, you’re always welcome,” Marie Michel chirped from the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about it, Kiddo.” Emma plopped a set of towels on the couch where Belle would be sleeping. “Everyone needs help sometimes.”

“Well, I really appreciate it. And I know I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of days. Saturday’s our last performance, so I’m hoping to concentrate completely on getting established on my own after that.”

“Speaking of which- we should all get going! Madame Vigneron will have our heads if we’re late” Ruby said with a quick imitation of her Grandmother.

Practice went well that week. Belle put her heart and soul into her dancing and kept her focus on the upcoming performance. Jefferson was his mad, saucy self and Belle felt genuine relief that those letters hadn’t come from him. Monsieur Gold didn’t come to any of the rehearsals that week, but Belle knew she would see him at tonight’s final performance and deep down she felt comforted by this. She didn’t want him absent from her life; she just didn’t want her family problems to be a burden to him – _she_ didn’t want to be a burden to him. He’d done so much for her already. And then there was that kiss. She needed time to think about what it meant. Why had he run off? Did he regret kissing her? Belle was optimistic that this time apart would be well spent.

“Qu’est-ce que tu as?” Ruby quirked a head over her shoulder and pinched her arm.

“Ow! Nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking.”

“Well, stop thinking and come get ready.”

 

She felt him before she saw him. At the conclusion of her rond de jambe she looked into his face. Passion, determination, fear, and so many other things brimmed in his eyes. She couldn’t understand it, so she turned away. Two-dozen long-stemmed white roses waited for her at her changing station after the show. Belle fingered the velvet petals for a moment before burying her face in the fragrant blossoms.

When she glanced down she noticed an envelope beneath the delicate crystal vase, pulled it out carefully and opened it. She knew immediately that the handwriting wasn’t Andre’s.

 

_Belle,_

_I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting. I know that when you see me, you expect more. Please meet me tonight so I can start again. If you’re waiting after the show behind the theater, I’ll know that I get that chance._

 

Another note with no signature, but now she knew. It was her long absent father struggling with his past. She had to admit that the letters were erratic at best, but she wanted to give him the chance he asked for.

Belle popped out of the room to find her girlfriends and let them know she had a few things to take care of before she’d be home later. When she whirled back around to go change, she nearly collided with Andre Gold.

“Did you get my flowers?” Gold’s voice was impeccably calm.

“Um…yes. Thank you.” Belle’s mind stumbled with the realization that the generous adornment of flowers from her father was in fact from Monsieur Gold. She should have known her father couldn’t have afforded such a prized arrangement. Belle bit her lip while emotions roiled in her head –fighting for release. “I’m staying with Ruby and Marie,” she blurted awkwardly.

Gold didn’t flinch and his eyes were cool and controlled when he spoke.

“We need to talk.”

“I’m actually going out.” Belle turned and continued toward her dressing room but he kept in stride with her.

“Auditions are in a couple of months. We can’t afford to lose any time. You should come home now, Belle.”

Belle paused mid-step and turned to look at him evenly. “Look, I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me, but right now I have to take care of my family.”

“He’s not your family, Belle.” Gold was trying desperately to will her to understand. “Can’t you see that he’s just a man that’s trying to weasel his way back into your life so he can use you? He hasn’t been your family since you were 6 years old. He doesn’t love you, Belle. He can’t!”

“How do you know that? He’s my father! He’s the only family I’ve got and he needs me.” Her voice trailed off as she wondered if it was really she that needed him. “Look, once I know he’s okay, then I’ll focus on ballet again.”

“He’s just wasting your time, Belle! You’ve made a life for yourself. I’ve made a good life for you. Don’t throw it away on some stranger.”

Belle’s frustration was growing inside her. Gold seemed so keenly aware of everything else in life, why couldn’t he see how important this was to her? “He’s my father!” she repeated. She was exasperated by the exchange, but hoped that if she said it enough times then maybe he’d understand. “I promise we’ll talk when I’ve worked things out.”

Gold’s own frustration was clouding his mind and he decided to change tactics. “I’ve invested a lot of money into your future. I didn’t do this so you could throw it away the first chance you get. You’ve got to rise above this-” Belle cut him off.

“Or what? Do I owe you something? I thought you saw the potential in me and wanted to help! I thought you wanted what’s best for me?” Tears were pooling in her eyes, threatening to pour over.

“I _do_ want what’s best for you. That’s why-”

“No! You don’t _know_ what’s best for me! You don’t know me. If you knew me then you would know I need to do this. I need-” Her voice failed her beneath the labored breathing that came with a breaking heart. There was an awkward silence as Belle tried to regain her composure. Gold simply looked at her. He searched for the right thing to say -the right thing to do. His hand reached out to comfort her, stopping short it merely hung in the air, inches from her quivering shoulder, before it dropped again to his side. After taking a deep breath he turned from her and walked away without another word.

 

The night air was cool and calming when Belle stepped outside. The light beside the backdoor steps was bright and clear but limited. After struggling for a few seconds to see down the alley, she wrapped her little cardigan closer to her chest and followed the narrow path into the dark. She was about halfway down the path before she felt someone behind her.

“Hello, Gorgeous!” Two thick and terrifyingly familiar arms wrapped around her waist. “I knew you’d come, Doll.”

Gaston Gautier placed sloppy, wet kisses on the back of her neck before spinning her around to face him. His eyes were greedy and confident as his right hand snaked through her hair.

 _“Knew I’d come?!”_ What did he mean? “Did you…” She could barely bring herself to ask, “Did you send me the letters?” Belle was stunned and horrified. How could she have made this mistake? How could she have fallen into this trap? She should have known. She should have been more careful. Her stomach began to tremble violently with every unwanted kiss he was trailing down her neck.

“Of course, Doll. Who did you think it was?” Gaston looked a little irritated but quickly returned to his activities at her neck and waist.

“Stop, Gaston. You have to stop!” The words had barely left her mouth before her back and head struck the stone wall of the theater with startling force. The hands and arms that had crushed her to his body now pinned her fiercely against the wall. Dizzy with pain, she fought for consciousness and freedom from his agonizing grip. “Please, Gaston. I don’t want this anymore. You need to let me go.”

His left hand released her shoulder and climbed to her neck where he began to squeeze harder with every word. “You belong to me, Belle!” he snarled in her ear.

“No” Belle mouthed, but she’d lost her breath and her strength.

Gaston’s wrath was coming out in full now. “You’re mine! You came out here didn’t you? You want to be with me too. Why else would you be here?!” His hot, alcohol soured breath slid down her face and neck with his gaze. “You’re mine Belle. You always have been. I let you run off and have your fun with that old cripple, but it’s time to come home now! If you won’t come easily, then I’ll just have to take you by force.”

The sound of the shot ricocheted off the alley walls pulsing in Belle’s ears as she tried to piece together what was happening. Gaston let go of her completely and she dropped in a limp heap to the floor, but he was still standing in front of her with wild emotion in his eyes. The anger that consumed him seconds ago was replaced with terror.

“I don’t believe the lady wants to go with you,” an unfamiliar voice proclaimed as a chrome revolver pressed against the back of Gaston’s, now profusely sweating head.

“What business is it of yours?” Gaston quiped, trying to hide his obvious shock.

“It’s always my concern wherein a woman isn’t being handled properly.”

Gaston spun around to strike the gunman, but the stranger blocked his flailing arm with ease and instead of landing the blow, he lost his balance and somehow tripped himself. Falling to the ground he pawed at the stranger in an attempt to regain his footing.

The stranger took quick advantage of Gaston’s bumbling and proceeded to pin him to the ground. After a couple of well placed punches to Gaston’s bloated face, the man again pressed the gun to Gaston’s head –this time directly between the eyes.

“Last chance, Mate. Leave the lady alone or I’ll be the last pretty face you ever see.”

Gaston was trying to figure a way out this mess, but it was clear that he didn’t have one. “Alright” Gaston choked out. “Fine.” He sounded almost like a little boy being reprimanded by his father for mouthing off.

The stranger carefully got off from on top of Gaston, gun still pointed at his head. “Go on, Boy.” Gaston looked, dejectedly at Belle, then back at her new rescuer. Without another word, he slowly turned away and shuffled into the dark.

Belle groaned at the throbbing pain in her back and neck but the fresh air in her lungs made her feel better already.

“How in the world did you get mixed up with the likes of him?”

Belle rubbed her tender neck and fought to catch up on her stolen breaths. “I thought…I was meeting my father.”

“Your father was supposed to meet you in an _alleyway_ …in the _dark_?” the stranger smirked with disbelief.

“It’s an incredibly long story.”

“I like long stories, Love. Perhaps you’ll share it with me some time,” he replied with a wink.

Belle smiled politely, unsure what to make of the stranger who’d acted so gallantly so she just said, “thank you,” and extended her hand to validate her appreciation. He accepted it and then placed his other hand on top, effectively sandwiching her own.

“If there’s anything I can ever do to repay you…” Belle began, but the man interrupted.

“Actually, there is.” He tilted his head until he was looking directly into Belle’s eyes. “I came here in hopes of finding a dancer. You see, I own a small theater and one of my dancers has left me high and dry. I was looking for someone to fill in. Just for the night. The job pays cash and it’s easy money for one of Madame Vigneron’s dancers.”

He was taller than her, taller than Gold too though not by much. He was obviously charming, but he seemed genuine. He sounded well educated, but wasn’t pompous. Something about him felt dangerous and alluring all at the same time. The fact that he was a foreigner wasn’t lost on her either, so she hesitated.

“You want me to work for you?” Belle was obviously surprised. “Look, I’m glad you were here. Believe me! But I don’t even know your name.”

“Of course, Love. Killian Jones. At your service. Enchanté,” he replied with a grand bow. “And you are?” His hand extended toward her, obviously inviting her to take it in formal introduction.

“Belle Dupont” she said, giving him her hand again. His casual air and confident manner made her feel more at ease and it was this easy feeling that she needed after a night like tonight.

“Well I hate to press you into making a hasty decision, but I’m afraid I’m up against the clock here. Tick tock, Love” he said with another bemused grin. “Can you help me out tonight or do I need to go rescue another damsel from the clutches of some beast?”

Belle took a moment to examine him once again. He was dressed well, albeit more eclectically than she was used to seeing. He wore a plain black suit, cut and tailored to his shape. His shirt was also black. It was well pressed but the top three buttons were undone, with no tie in sight. His shoes were more casual, but no less designer. The tips came to a point, like most men’s dress shoes, but it was clear from the way the pant legs were bunched at the bottom, that these were more like boots. Each wrist was decorated with various leather straps and silver chains. Belle never liked jewelry on men, but somehow it fit him. His hair was short and dark, not at all like Gold’s and it was tousled wildly atop his head.

She couldn’t turn him down, could she? Not after he’d rescued her so valiantly. Her thoughts jumped to Gold. He definitely wouldn’t approve of her dancing anywhere other than the theater or at home. Her emotions started to push up inside her again, but before they could have the chance, she swiftly made up her mind.

“Yes, of course.” She said assuredly, as if to defy Gold’s hold on her mind. “Just let me get my bag.” As she scooped up her duffle inside, she justified her choice. It was just one time. Monsieur Gold wouldn’t have approved, but it could be just like practice. _I’m sure it won’t be half as demanding as what Gold’s put me through_ , she thought to herself. Besides, now that she was planning on moving out of Gold’s house, even if just to help her father, she would need some money of her own.

“All set?” Killian grinned brightly as she reemerged from the back door of the theatre, bag in hand. She nodded and he continued to speak. “My driver is out front waiting for me. We’ll talk details as we drive. It won’t take long to get there.” He took her bag and carried it for her, like a gentleman, until they got to his car, where he passed it off to his driver.

“Belle Dupont, this is Guillaume Smee. You may call him William or Smee. Whatever suits your fancy… Off to the theater Smee!” 


	9. The Jolly Roger

A glistening sheen of sweat coated her flushed skin. Meager shallow breaths were all she could manage in the restrictive confines of the ill-fitting satin bodice. Backstage, a swarm of girls had pinched and squeezed and stuffed her tiny frame into sequins and feathers and fishnets before shoving her onto the stage. The single spotlight illuminated her costumed form and cast everything else in blurry shadow.

The smoke of cigarettes and cigars formed an upper layer of atmosphere against the ceiling within the four walls. It hung thick, diffusing the lights into a muddy haze. The simple wooden bistro chairs and tables were scattered about the dirty white and red-ish-brown checkered tile floor. Every step of the waitress’ spiked heels gently echoed against the mahogany wainscot and faded gold leaf damask wallpaper. Each table only had room for a pitcher with some glasses and a candle encased in a red glass jar. The flames flicked with the occasional cough of a well-seasoned smoker or a nervous first-time benefactor.

A nameless temperamental piano stood upright against the heavy black velvet curtain. Its polished finish had been tarnished unevenly by years of neglect and various sweaty bodies propping themselves against it for their routines. The notes played were invariably off tune, as if it were whining to the world about its unenviable circumstance.

A stout, hairy man carefully scrutinized the club from the foyer. When the front door opened to let in another “investor”, the neon lights of Pigalle splintered the fogged room. Killian roamed the floor checking on the details that maintained his establishment. In one corner was a pool table where two men played for the attention of one of the waitresses. Another corner had the VIP section, complete with red leather booths. Its patronage was a conglomerate of Paris’ castaways and corrupt. The cheap seats near the stage were populated with hollow, anxious eyes and gaping booze scented lips.

The once familiar anticipation of performing now unnerved her. Silent judgment from her audience was paralyzing. Only the hum of bar chatter or the sporadic clink of glasses broke through the music that was playing. It wasn’t Tchaikovsky, or Balanchine, or Delibes like she was accustomed to, but some track blaring through the PA system that Killian had chosen for her on the way over that night.

When the music began, her body responded instinctively. She performed her routine motions under a rain of curious stares and the watchful eye of a now attentive Killian Jones.

 

Gold brooded. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was right about this entire situation! Belle had practically forced him out of her life for now. She wanted to settle things with her father. She should be preparing for auditions. She needed to be marketing with the board for her chance at prima ballerina. She should be at home with him – preparing. She promised to come back after ensuring her father was okay… If he could expedite this process then he was damn well going to!

Gold didn’t trust the fool Maurice one bit, but Belle did – that was a problem. What kind of liabilities had the man racked up in the first place? What sort of idiotic activities was the dolt caught up in -what would he drag Belle into? Gold would soon get to the bottom of this. He had the connections and the means and he intended to use them. One phone call later and a couple of burly “businessmen” in pinstripe suits left an office downtown to track the man in the photo they pocketed.

When Gold finished in the study he stalked up the large staircase to Belle’s room. It irked him that she’d left most of her grand possessions he’d provided for her behind. She hadn’t even taken the new pointe shoes Hopper had purchased a couple of days before she left. Their ribbons, still unattached hung neglected over the door of her wardrobe. Gold absently wrapped the long glossy ribbons around his hand and stared out the window. He regretted their last interaction at the theater. An “investment”?! That was a desperately idiotic attempt. His mind blanked as he began to get lost in the various choices he made that may have pushed her away.

The phone rang in his pocket. A deep voice on the other end: “We have a lead. We’re pursuing it now.” *Click* 

The call snapped Gold back into reality. As he peered out her window, he noticed some uncharacteristically disheveled plants in the garden, like someone had trampled them a while back. This area had been a bit neglected in the time of Belle’s preparation, otherwise he certainly would have noticed sooner. 

Wandering into the garden he looked around for any other signs of tampering, but found everything as it should be. The only other change was a path leading away from the maple tree off to the drive. Someone blazed an unauthorized trail to his garden. He looked along the defiant footway and saw a piece of paper sticking out from some leaves.

 

_Belle,_

_I know my coming to you would be a surprise so I left this note instead. I’m sorry I left you when you were young. Maybe someday you’ll be able to forgive me._

_-Maurice Dupont_

This note was unique – not like the one Belle had given him. The handwriting was different. The paper was crumpled, as if it had been carried in a pocket and this one… had a signature. He hurried back inside to his study where he had stored the other note. Definitely different!

His eagerness to settle her father’s matters now turned to anxiety. Did Maurice have someone else write the other notes? Was he capable of that? Probably not. Who else would be so infatuated by Belle? The author was definitely unstable to say the least. He suddenly remembered that idiot “Boy” at the ballet that first night. “Hopper!” His voice bellowed through the vacant halls. “Get the car!”

 

An unbroken hush fell over the club from bartender to busboy. Every man was hypnotized by the gust of otherworldliness that seemed to become base for their enjoyment that evening, even though they knew they didn’t deserve it. A spell had been cast – her dance had captivated the interest of everyone at hand and held it until she stopped moving. Even the highly competitive other dancers were acutely aware that something was different.

The room swayed and Belle abruptly exited the stage. Tears welled in her eyes at the same time bile rose up in her throat. The stares, the smoke, the nerves, and lack of oxygen were enough to send her quickly over the edge.

“What the hell was that?” A raven-haired girl with almond eyes, and blood red lips blocked her way.

“Back off, Lani!” A blonde in 50’s style military pinup wrapped an arm around Belle and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“Don’t worry about it, Minette, it gets better,” a redheaded girl spoke up.

“I was nervous my first time, too,” the blonde cooed consolingly. “Kil was a beast to put you out there alone your first time but you’ll get use to it.”

“Suck it up, Princess. You won’t last a week like this.” Lani appraised her coolly from head to toe and obviously found her lacking. Belle couldn’t care less.

The perfume, powder and confining area backstage only added to her nausea. Her duffle had been carelessly stuffed under one of the changing stations upon arriving in the flurry of preparation before she’d been shoved onstage. She went to retrieve it now, but it was slung over the shoulder of Guillaume Smee.

“Mr. Jones is waitin’ for you, Ma’am.”

Belle nodded and followed the man down a narrow corridor that wove from the backstage along the side of the club to a collection of small offices. The one was dimly lit and scantily furnished but large and obviously in use. A massive desk took up one side where Jones sat behind an assortment of paperwork. He rose gracefully when they entered, his signature wide, toothy grin spreading across his handsome face. 

“Belle. Have a seat Darling.”

Smee gestured to one of the leather-clad wooden chairs facing Killian’s desk and maintained his position by the office door, bag still in hand. She walked in cautiously and sat down promptly. Her legs squeezed together and her head hung a bit low, she was still digesting what she had just done on stage while now fighting back the nausea that plagued her.

“Great job tonight. You were quite the hit. I don’t think we’ve ever seen such culture here, have we Mr. Smee?” He walked around to the front of the desk, now leaning against it.

“No Sir. Not so far as I can recall. It was a nice treat.” Belle could smell the odor of the profusely sweating Smee – increasing the churning in her stomach. 

“That’s… nice. Thank you, but I don’t think I could do that again.” She said half to herself and nervously smiled.

“I don’t know about that, Love. Just takes a bit of practice. I’ve helped my share of dancers get their feet wet. And there were a lot of inquiries made about you tonight.” Killian plopped down a small stack of cash on the edge of the desk. His eyebrows rose with a slight smile, in an endeavor to tempt her into taking the bait. She pocketed the cash and refocused her attention on the worn carpet, enduring a prolonged silence.

 “You’ll get used to it.” She knew what he was getting at and immediately began planning her deflections. “As my colleague already said, ‘you were quite the treat’. But there’s more to it than that. I can help you out.” It hung in the air, forcing Belle to look up, she thought she knew...

“I don’t need any help. But thank you.” 

“That’s not entirely true now is it?” He just looked at her with a knowing smirk. Walking back behind his desk he picked up a ledger. “I know your father, Belle.”

The revelation excited her and unnerved her all at once. “My father? How do you know my father? Do you know where he is?” She seized the moment to gain any information she could, desperate to find him and return to her life. 

Laughing at her he spoke. “We all know him quite well, don’t we, Mr. Smee? Old Maurice has quite the recreational habits. The trouble is he’s not very good. He owes me a fair amount. I’d say it’s more than he could pay back… without help that is.”

Smee snickered as Belle’s mind raced down this path of thought with increasing horror. _Was this man, who had saved her a few hours earlier, really the one her father was indebted to?_ Thoroughly exhausted and utterly defeated, Belle buried her head in her hands while Killian closed the distance between them.

“I do consider myself an honorable man – a man with a code. I run a classy establishment, a gentleman’s establishment. Now a _gentleman_ always pays off his debt, and being a gracious factor, I give my patrons fair time to pay off their debt. However, your father has yet to pay off what he owes with anything greater than sniveling, begging, and sorry excuses. His time has run short. Now I’m forced to extract payment through _alternate_ means.”

“Your arrival, however, has been serendipitous – saved me a lot of grief and embarrassment. I’ll offer you an agreement.” Killian hooked his finger below Belle’s chin, drawing her eyes slowly up to his. “You work off the debt and I’ll call off my dogs.”

 Belle could see no other options, nor she could she bring herself to speak. She simply nodded in submissive agreement.

 “Wonderful. Welcome to The Jolly Roger! So you go home and get some rest. Be here tomorrow at 6:00pm.” Belle somehow found the strength to stand and obtain her bag from Smee. “Oh, and one more thing…” he called to her just as she was getting ready to exit the office.

“Remember that this is a gentlemen’s club… and gentlemen prefer blonds.”


	10. What The Boss Wants

Belle stared at the stranger in the mirror with disgust. In the past four days she’d managed to lie to all of her friends, drop her training, move into a dilapidated room above The Jolly Roger, and change her appearance so drastically she was practically crying at her reflection. Buttery locks spilled over her shoulders to the pleated bustline of her cornflower blue corset. The steel boning carved sultry curves out of her modest frame. Perpetual exhaustion from deception, unnatural sleeping hours, and searching for her father had hollowed her cheeks and darkened the skin under her eyes.  Ashley magicked them away with a swipe of thick concealer.

“Incroyable! Blonde suits you, Belle!” Ashley was giddy with delight as she surveyed her painstaking handiwork.

Belle gathered her runaway thoughts together and put them neatly aside before gifting the girl a genuine smile.

“Thank you, Ashley. You truly did a wonderful job.”

 “Don’t you think she’s delicious, Lani? Mulan! Will you pay attention?”

Lani glanced up from her own station to shrug in their direction, “What the boss wants, the boss gets.” She was precise and direct about everything she said and did.  As she fastened the busk closure of her pink bodice and slid black satin gloves up her arms she turned to give Belle another once-over. 

The vibrant blue corset that had been chosen for her had a plunging sweetheart neckline, fuchsia satin ribbon piping and lace-up sides. Lani poked and pulled at a few wisps of stray tulle in her tutu before turning away.

Belle had absorbed a lot of gossip in the past few days. Nothing happened in The Jolly Roger that the girls didn’t know about. By the second day she knew most of the girls’ back-stories. Some of them were saving up for a smooth switch to another vocation. Others were gaining experience for better venues. Lani was the only one who didn’t show any intention of leaving The Jolly Roger. She’d expected to take center stage as the final act before Belle had arrived. If she held a grudge, she didn’t show it. The same direct tone and mannerisms were used with everyone. As the self-appointed head of the burlesque dancers she looked after every detail of their performance with perfectionist dedication. Only Belle’s solo routine went uncritiqued.

The Jolly Roger had lauded Belle’s little ballet performance with such tremendous attention, Killian had simply left her act untouched as the crowning finale that reeled in a hearty profit from unquenchable, patient gawkers.  Many a man had lost his paycheck in the long stretch that preceded the _Princess’_ performance –for that’s what they’d come to call her. A title that reflected the men’s crude understanding of her otherworldliness and the respect they thought she deserved.

“You should have gone lighter” Lani shrugged again.

Ashley rolled her eyes dramatically before making adjustments to the hot pink bustle bow on her rear. “The honey highlights suit her better.”

Three firm raps hit the dressing door before Killian breezed in with a garish grin and extravagant bow followed by the ever-nervous Mr. Smee. “Ladies! Everything ready for tonight?”

Killian’s glance flitted across the room until it rested on Belle. Heat rushed up her over exposed chest and face as she struggled to maintain dignity under his amused scrutiny in her flimsy costume.

“Glad to see you looking so fresh, Love.” The words hit Belle like the stinging needles of an ice storm. “Who did the hair?”

Ashley affirmed his suspicion with a silent smile, as if to show off her masterpiece. “Have you been probing around in my fantasies, Ashley?” With that Killian, grasped Belle’s hands and raised her to stand before him, for inspection. “She’s just like I’d hoped!” He turned back toward the dressing room door.

“Wait and see, Darlin’. You’ll be the ‘Belle’ of the ball.” With a wink and a crooked smile, his eyes wandered her figure before leaving them to their devices.

The flock of girls scrambled out to the stage glimmering head to toe in feathers, sequins, ribbons and jewels. Belle was deserted to her own devices until she was called for.

 

Four days of worry and angst had taken its toll on Gold. Rarely did he find himself in situations that went so unresolved. He aggressively pursued the two men, Gaston and Maurice, with multiple resources. He had addresses for both, though neither seemed to actually _live_ at their respective homes.

_What the hell did these men do all day and night?_ He knew that Gaston worked at the ballet, but during the off-season he could lose himself in any one of Paris’ troughs. _If that idiot boy did anything–!_ He stopped himself before wandering down that path for too long. He had means to deal with that end, if he needed to… _he’d better not need to._  

The “associates” that Gold hired a few days ago explored every lead and kept him informed regarding Maurice. He was a glutton and a sluggard, living in the 18th arrondissement of Paris, between Montmartre and Boulevard de Rochechouart. So, while Maurice didn’t write those threatening notes, his habits confirmed to Gold he’d made the right choice to keep him at bay. Gold searched the files of his mind for some unexplored connection or opening to find Maurice. He decided to call Hopper and check on his status.

“Everything’s fine, Sir. I’m just about finished at the office, and then I’ll hop the Metro back to the estate. I should be there in about 30 minutes.” 

“Good. We’re going out as soon as you get back.” *Click*

“Oui Monsieur.” Hopper responded automatically, even though Monsieur Gold never stayed on long enough to hear. He wondered when they would catch a break, as he pocketed his cell phone. The past few nights had been spent combing the city. Belle was a sweet addition to the house. He missed her genuinely cheerful smiles and encouraging looks when Monsieur Gold would berate him for one thing or another. In the time she’d been with them, everything had become…warmer…softer. The estate felt like a real home now.

As he walked out onto the street level, Hopper immediately descended the stairs, submerging himself beneath the city. The train arrived shortly and he managed to find a nook for himself without having to squeeze against too many tourists or pickpockets. He scanned the car, as was his cautious habit, and happened to see a man with the same build as Belle’s father. Trouble was, Maurice was _exiting_ the car. Hopper sped toward the nearest sliding door and unbelievably managed to slip out without incident.

He pulled out his phone to double-check his vision against the photograph Monsieur Gold had acquired. _Absolument!_ He glanced up just in time to notice the man disappear back up to the street. “Monsieur Maurice!” Hopper’s voice was absorbed by the distance and the crowd between them, so he rushed after him.

Arriving at the top of the stairs, he was glad to see that his target hadn’t strayed too far. He lifted up a silent prayer as he continued his pursuit. After zigzagging through a couple of blocks, Hopper finally caught up to the man. “Monsieur!” Maurice turned around to see a vaguely familiar face. When recognition struck him, he immediately struck a defensive posture. “No, Monsieur,” Hopper pleaded gently, ”I would just like to speak with you a moment.”

Maurice blinked slowly and familiar hopelessness crept over the hostility in his features. “How’s Belle?” he asked tentatively.

The question caught Hopper off-guard. “Actually, Maurice, we were hoping you could tell us. You mean you haven’t seen her?”

The pair of men stared at each other briefly, each reflecting on this new information. Realizing that any more time spent with Maurice would be wasted, Hopper made a quick exchange of phone numbers. “Here’s my card. Call us when you see her.” In a manner more befitting his boss, Hopper simply turned and walked away. He headed back to the Metro and back to what was no doubt, an anxious Monsieur Gold. 

 

The club was packed with a rowdy crowd that night –even during Belle’s performance, the gawkers and grabbers were a little more aggressive. Leroy had his hands full tossing the riffraff out the door while the dancers were forced to fill in as extra waitresses inbetween their routines. A large crowd was gathered around Killian at one of the far booths, mostly men in suits. A stunning woman with jet-black hair and serpentine curves was with them. She leaned over Killian and kissed him fully on the lips. Straightening up again she turned towards the stage and flashed Belle a wicked, bemused grin -one that was startlingly familiar. _Mademoiselle Regina Prevot!_ Belle concluded her performance with triple fouettés and quickly exited the stage to take up a tray from the bar.

Distracted by the sight of Gold’s former protégé kissing Killian Jones, Belle hadn’t noticed the drunkard fumbling for a glass on her tray until his hand reached past the drink toward the plunging neckline of Belle’s low-cut bustier. Before she had a chance to react, someone grabbed the man’s hand and rapidly contorted it in a way that shoved him to his knees.

“Lani?”

“Watch it buster! We’re a strictly ‘no touch’ policy around here.” With that, she handed the sot off to Leroy who gruffly escorted him out.

Belle shook off the shock and smiled in relief. There’d been the occasional passing brush of someone’s hand in the past, but never someone so brazen as that. “Thanks Lani.”

“No worries, Princess. If I let him touch you, then next he’d want to touch me and we can’t have that. After the show tonight I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Belle’s gaze trailed Regina Prevot out the exit while she waited by the bar for her next order to be filled.

“You know Genie?” Leroy slouched against the counter with a glass of water.

“Um, yes. Well, I mean we’ve met before…somewhere else.” Leroy eyed her curiously and took another swig of water. “She and Killian are thick as thieves. Probably best to stay off her bad side, Sister. She packs a sting in her bite.”

“Hmm. So I’ve heard.” Belle thought back to Le Grand Véfour. She definitely wanted to steer clear of the woman. Why was she even here –and with _Killian_? And what was the meaning behind her look? Amusement? Satisfaction? Pure evil! Belle shuttered at the mere remembrance.  Her head and feet ached, but there was still a long hard night ahead of her. Maybe on her break she could ask around for a lead on her father. 


	11. Belle Ange

The sun set still over the Paris skyline. Through the grimy window Killian could make out the top of the Eiffel Tower keeping watch over the city. The sky was painted with various pinks and purples behind it. As the sun sank lower it began to assault his sight, “Leroy. Close the blinds!” With no lovely distractions from the outside world, his focus was forced back to the tasks at hand. He was anxious to be promoted within the organization so it was probably all for the best.

The Jolly Roger was preparing to open in a little over an hour. The combination of fading daylight and fluorescent pod lights didn’t flatter his establishment. His workers carried on around him like the visionless drones he’d hired them to be. The girls were grinding and twirling away on the stage with various feathers, straps, and clacking heels. The base thumping from their songs was beginning to pound uncomfortably in the back of his head. His eyes caught a glimpse of Belle stretching off to the side of the stage.

Even the baggy sweats and unkempt hair couldn’t wipe away the memory of luscious curves and toned, muscular legs; his attention never neglected her for long. He often found himself thinking about those legs early into the next morning, after a night with Regina. He was proud to have bagged such a prize for his club. He knew it was because of Regina’s devious manipulation of that boy at the ballet on closing night, but for his part, Killian was glad to have such a fresh change of scenery before him. When he saw her in the alley that night, he knew it would be a pleasure to reel her away from the ballet. This week she seemed to be settling into her new role with something akin to acceptance. He wondered what else she might accept.

“Can we have some of your attention Kil, Dear?” Regina’s voice snapped him back to the reality in front of him. A concoction of various Paris underworld players was making its play to place a new _prevote_ – assistant to the _Préfet de police_. This new pawn was one of a multitude of boy toys Regina had collected over the years. His name was Monsieur Sydney Verre. He was enamored with Genie, quite willing to happily do whatever she commanded.

Regina and Killian both had their bits on the side, but they always came back together. She had sunk her teeth into men and women all over the political scene in Paris and scattered parts of France. Meanwhile, he had women dedicated to him within the city that he often used to further the Mob’s agenda, and thus his climb up their ranks. Their mutual understanding precluded any incidents of jealousy or confusion. Killian knew she’d been working on Verre’s position for a while now. He scoffed at the politician’s tell-tale nervous ticks and awkward moments with Regina during the meeting. Sydney must have thought their rendezvous were a secret.

Killian absently noted the girls had finished rehearsal and left to change. As he looked back to his present company, the front door of the club opened wide, letting the offensive sunlight pierce his vision. Mr. Smee stood at the door, holding it open for someone. “Come on! Mustn’t keep him waiting!” A tired and defeated looking Maurice Dupont shuffled his way in. “I found him Mr. Jones. Where do you want him?” 

“Well done, Mr. Smee! Take him back to the office and wait.” Turning to Regina, Sydney, and the other suits at the table, “Are we done here? I think the boss would be happy. Give him my regards. I have some other matters to attend to. I trust you can see them out, my dear.” All the members bid their various good-byes to each other as he made his way back to the office.

Killian monitored Dupont’s agitated tics from the doorway. Smee was perched behind him, ready to pounce like a jungle cat. Maurice spouted off the moment Killian stepped into the room. “I know I’m still late on what I owe Monsieur Jones. _Je suis d_ _é_ _sol_ _é_. I-I just haven’t been able to make any money lately.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me Mr. Dupont.” The metal heel of Killian’s handcrafted boots rung out like spurs as he circled Maurice. “You haven’t been around the club in a while. We have a new girl, you know.” To which Smee snickered. 

“Ah… no. I didn’t know that. That’s nice. Look, Monsieur, I think I may have a way to pay off some of my debt, but–” 

“Slow down Maurice. That’s why you’re here! Your debt’s been handled.”

Shock flooded the geezer’s pasty face. Cautiously – suspiciously, he prodded, “What do you mean? How?”

“Your daughter.”

What did Jones know about his daughter? Did Belle somehow get the money to pay him? Was this some trick? He couldn’t give in to a cruel hope.

“I don’t have a daughter,” he gave a futile attempt to protect her anonymity.

“Now, now Maurice, don’t lie. Belle’s been quite the charm here. It’s not her usual venue, what with her being groomed to take over as prima ballerina, but she’s found her niche. She still dances ballet, but now it’s more fun to watch.” Killian flashed his arrogant, devilish grin. “She’s quickly become the house favorite. Take a look for yourself. Tell you what; I’ll even pick up your tab tonight in celebration. I always keep my word, don’t I? Your debt is settled. No more cowering or begging. Hold your head high, knowing that your lovely daughter had the means to save you. Go enjoy tonight as a free man. Now get out.”

The words struck him like a punch to the gut. _His Belle, dancing on stage for Killian Jones?_

“Congratulations, Mr. Dupont,” Smee offered as he shunted the distraught man out the door.

Already, the club was teeming with the corrupt and depraved of Paris. Bawdy, mindless, demons and oafs crowded the stage. Maurice ordered a drink from the bar and found a lone table, a couple rows back. He’d seen these girls before and usually enjoyed their… talents, but tonight was different. He saw each dancer in a new light – as someone’s daughter. Anxiety ransacked his emotions when Belle took center stage.

She was a _belle ange_ – a beautiful angel shining in the depths of hell. Most of the men watched his little girl through the smoky blue haze with mildly respectful awe, but Maurice didn’t miss a few unmistakable heckles and his blood boiled with every drunken outburst. His Belle was bringing purity and beauty into this dismal Tartarus. She belonged on the stage of Opéra de Paris –not mucking about in the underworld.

Tears dripped from the miserable man’s nose, sweeping heedlessly down his leathery cheeks into his open glass of whiskey and still he didn’t look away. _She was amazing!_ When she’d finished she paused and looked at him and he knew he should leave, but unable to move, he swiped a calloused paw across his soggy face and downed the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp.

Belle fluttered with anticipation. He was here! He sat mere feet from her and yet she could barely change her shoes because her anxiety found a million ways for him to escape before she ever got to speak with him again.

 _Did she see tears on his face?_ He must be ashamed of her, she thought wretchedly, but she was doing it for him. _He had to know that._ Determination swept over her as she unlaced her pointes and slipped into the spiked heals mandated for waitressing.

She cautiously pushed through the curtain dividing the hallway and the main floor. The club was busy tonight so she quickly swiped her tray from the bar to make her rounds. She went straight to her father’s table where he slumped limply in his hands, unaware of her. When he looked up his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Belle slipped into the seat beside him and covered his hand with her own.

“Belle, you need to leave this place. You don’t belong _here_.” Belle squeezed his hand with all the love and tenderness she’d held inside the past few weeks and met his eyes bravely.

“No, Papa. I’m doing this for us.”

Maurice abruptly jerked his hand away. “You shouldn’t do anything for me. I left you, Belle. I was a coward…I…” Belle arrested the fugitive hand and held it gently between her own.

“It’s alright, Papa. I understand. Mama died. Things weren’t the same.”

“I’m so sorry, ma fifille,” Maurice choked dejectedly. “If I could go back…change things…”

“Shh…Papa. It’s alright now,” Belle soothed. “I forgive you.”

Maurice looked at the courageous woman in front of him and felt for the first time that he needed to be a better person. “ _Non!_ It’s not worth it, ma fifille. I’ve made my bed. You mustn’t help me fix this. You need to go back to Mr. Gold. That’s where you belong, Belle, among glamour and grace. Not here with the dregs and drunks. You’re a _grande dame_ –a real lady. Look, I know I didn’t like that he tried to keep me away, but I realize now it was the right thing. You’re making a good life for yourself. He’s making a good life for you. You need to get out of here.”

Killian’s voice broke the moment, “Oh Belle, Princess. There are other guests that require your attention. One’s that are actually paying something!”

Belle looked up to see Killian’s impatient glare. He wasn’t supportive of their little reunion; so with an apologetic glance to her father Belle walked toward the bar to pick up some drinks awaiting delivery. She made her best effort to distribute them quickly – accidentally spilling a bit in her haste. They talked a bit more here and there whenever she could grab a free moment to stop by his table, but soon the bar would be closing down and Leroy was eyeing the stragglers.

“Mr. Jones would like a word with you, Miss Belle.” Monsieur Smee clamped a resolute hand on her shoulder.

Belle assented reluctantly but spun away to give her father one last embrace before he left. “I’ll see you soon?” She prodded hopefully.

Maurice nodded and turned toward the exit, his right hand buried deep in the pocket of his thread-worn coat. Gripping his cell phone determinedly he dialed the number on the small card he’d salvaged.

“Monsieur Hopper? Yes, this is Maurice Dupont. Tell him –I found her…”

 

Mr. Smee released his grip on Belle’s shoulder as they entered the office. Killian hovered over his immense wooden desk, littered with ledgers and various liquor bottles where he’d attempted inventory. “Thank you Mr. Smee. You may go now,” he dismissed, with a flick of his wrist, “…and close the door.” Killian dropped a last note in his books before his gaze swept over every inch of her, trailing the exaggerated curves of her black taffeta corset and ruffled bloomers down her silk stockinged legs.

Belle waited for Killian to speak while her thoughts flitted back and forth to the night’s conversation with her father.  Killian shrugged off his high collared gabardine trench and stalked toward her in his signature black collared shirt and five button vest. A polished flash of his infamous smile attempted to bemuse her.

“Did you need something Monsieur Jones?” Belle asked politely.

“Shh shh, my dear Belle, please…” Belle awaited the remainder of that thought. He’d circled around so he was now between her and the exit. “Call me Kil, Love. You’ve been here long enough, there’s no need for the formalities. I just wanted to check in on you; see how you’re getting’ on. Are you comfortable upstairs?”

“It’s fine. Thank you.” Killian smoothly closed the gap between them. Belle attempted to side step his advance without success.

“Belle, I don’t see you interact much with the other girls and you haven’t had any visitors that I’m aware of. You must be so lonely…” Jones soothed with a mock pout.

“You’re father’s racked up quite a large debt you know. Now, you’re doing a good job and all, but you’ve still barely made a dent.” Killian’s fingertip descended the hook and eye enclosure of her sable corset while he searched her eyes with hungry intensity. “We may be able to speed up the repayment process, Love.”

Belle managed to squirm past him and retreat a couple of steps towards the door, but stilettos weren’t made for clean getaways. “No, thank you, Killian. I’m fine with the arrangement how it is.” Suddenly her wrist was in a clean hard grip as he tugged her backward against the desk. The impact caused some of the empty bottles to knock over, rolling around behind her.  His hand on her back pressed her tightly against his chest, striking their foreheads together while his venomous smile brushed against her lips. “I have a feeling you’re wasting the best of your talents, Love.”

Slowly, intentionally, he pressed a firm deliberate kiss to her mouth, willing her to respond with the pressure of his arms tightening around her. His teeth broke the skin of her bottom lip with unrelenting insistence. Belle kept her eyes and lips tightly shut, enduring the vile attention while she contemplated escape plans. Something bumped her wrist where her hands gripped the edge of Killian’s desk. Without another thought, Belle arrested the bottle and swung it powerfully, shattering it across Killian’s skull.

It stunned him enough to rock him back on his heels only an instant, before he lurched forward. Broken bottle still in her grasp, Belle wildly swung at his outstretched hand. She met little resistance as the sharp shards sliced through the tender flesh of his wrist. Blood immediately splattered the floor around her; it must have cut deep.

“Bitch!” Killian cried out sharply and fell to his knees, his savage oaths echoed down the hall where she fled to the main doors. Clutching a bar rag to the bloody mess, Killian staggered after her with blind rage.

Belle stumbled, blurry eyed, out the club’s double doors into the street where two arms clamped her tightly in a frantic embrace. A wave of frenzied sobs broke upon the chest of Andre Gold. “Belle. It’s okay. I’m here now.” Andre guided her head into the crook of his shoulder absorbing her broken sobs, soothing the surprise of golden tresses with long languid strokes.

Killian got no further than one step outside the building before Maurice delivered a violent blow to the back of his head, knocking him out.

After only a moment Belle slipped limply into unconsciousness. Scooping her securely in his arms, Gold shuffled slowly into the car where Hopper shut the door behind them. “ _Vous n’avez rien_ _à craindre._ I’m here now.” 


	12. Chateau de la Rivage

Café, baked goods and salt sea air arrested her senses. Scattered images of the night before filtered through her sleepy mind as she blinked in the bright sunlight. Above her head, long thick beams crossed a vaulted ceiling. Propped up on her elbows, Belle studied the smooth, stone walls and renaissance furniture of her foreign surroundings. The room was round and the unmistakable tang of ocean air wafted through the large open windows that lined the southern side. Belle slipped out of bed for a better view. Two stories below her room was a very neat vegetable and flower garden bordered by low clipped hedges. A path ribboned through it to a wide flat space with a table and chairs and then down a narrow flight of steps to the rocky shore.

Three gentle taps and someone nudged open the door. A pleasant, round faced woman with a wide, wrinkled grin carried in a tray and set it on the white duvet of the bed she just slept in.

“ _Bonjour, ch_ _ère_. I wanted to get this breakfast to you before it got cold. _Je suis appel_ _é Madame Potts_. I’m the caretaker of Chateau de la Rivage and I’m so very pleased you’ve come to stay at last! Marco has told me so much about you and I’ve been pleading for weeks for Monsieur to bring you here so I could meet you. You’re absolutely lovely, My Dear!” The little woman crossed two pudgy arms across her stout middle as if to refrain from wrapping them around Belle.

“Merci, Madame Potts. I’m sorry, but where are we?”

“Why this is Monsieur Gold’s family estate! The most beautiful home in le Midi, Southern France. Oh, don’t you worry about talking right now, they’ll be plenty of time for that later. I’ve brought you some café crème, a tartine and some strawberry confiture. You look like no one’s fed you since you were _une b_ _éb_ _é_. There’s more where that came from. Eat up and I’ll be up to check on you in a bit.”

Belle ate up every last crumb of the buttered bread with jam before exploring each corner of her surroundings. In this room, there wasn’t much to uncover. A large, dark, canopy bed with elaborate carvings of fruited swags took up the center of the room. A wooden chest sat under the window filled with blankets and a couple of lavender sachets. A walnut armoire with heavy moldings and raised panels stood directly across from the bed and a Louis XIV chair with rose brocade occupied the North wall. Spanning the entire room was a round Tabriz rug in lovely golden hues.

Belle visited the adjoining bathroom and quickly gave into the glories of the imposing claw foot tub. She cringed to see a small splatter of blood under her thumbnail and hastily washed away the sickening reminder of her run-in with Jones. Gold had been so careful to wipe away every trace of the encounter last night. Slowly, gently he’d sponged away every speck of blood from her arms and legs while she sat shocked and listless on the floor of this bathroom. He’d said things then, things she couldn’t remember, but she remembered his eyes, honey and amber full of relief and regret.

Belle tugged a terry cloth towel around her and balled up the shirt she’d slept in, Gold’s shirt. They hadn’t returned for her things last night but instead, hours of driving had brought them to this place: a stone manor in the South of France, both intimidating and majestic during the moonlit hours. She brushed her blond hair and braided it down her back. In the armoire she found a simple, white linen dress and thankfully no trace of the hideous costume she’d arrived in.  She had no shoes, so she shrugged and stepped out into the hall in bare feet.

Rug upon rug paved most of her way through the endless maze of tapestry lined halls and rooms she investigated. On her floor there was a large sitting room and a variety of richly furnished bedrooms. On the next floor down she discovered an art gallery with generation upon generation of _les gens grands_ and a library much like Gold’s but far cleaner and more crowded with furniture dating back to the medieval and renaissance periods. It was here that Madame Potts found her.

“ _Ch_ _ère! Venez avec moi._ Come with me. You can’t go barefoot. _Vous allez tomber malade!”_

Madame Potts was beside herself with worry and no matter what Belle said on the long trek to the kitchen, the little woman continued to fret and chastise her about getting sick until Belle smiled, sighed and surrendered. A friendly figure reclined on a stool at the kitchen’s island counter.  International Herald Tribune in one hand and a half-eaten croissant in the other Marco Geppetto greeted Belle in the only way he ever did anymore –with a large, warm hug.

“Buon giorno, Bella! We missed you!” 

“I missed you too.” Belle smiled at the old Italian and reached up to kiss his leathery cheek.

“Belle, chère, put these on.” Madame Potts produced two simple leather sandals from a closet beyond the kitchen. They were a bit big but they stayed on her feet.

“Geppetto. You must go to town and get her something more _approprié_.”

“It’s fine, Madame Potts,” Belle countered with a wide smile, “They’re soft and comfortable. They’ll be fine.”

Madame wrinkled her nose in disagreement and went to retrieve her brioches from the oven. They were a perfect, shiny golden brown and Belle mused briefly what it would be like to bake something like this on her own. Marco swept up his vibrating phone from the marble counter and flipped it open. “Archambault? _Comment ça va?_ Ah, sì. ”

Belle’s eavesdropping was crushed in the muddle of broken French and Italian.  

“Archambault and Gold have business in Paris for a couple of days. You’re to rest, relax, and eat well. Archambault said your things should arrive in a few days, but for now, I’ve been sent to town to fetch you some necessities.” With a wink and a smile, Marco urged Belle to pen a quick list for him before Madame Potts shooed her out for some fresh air while she prepped dinner.

Gusts of warm July winds had cleared the sky of clouds as far as the eye could see. Belle descended the narrow stair to the rocky shore. The tide was out and the boulders faded from charcoal to gold. She found a smooth rock and basked in the sun and the sight of the sea until Madame Potts summoned her to lunch. Geppetto was back. Outside, the three of them dined on shaved fennel and citrus salad among the blooming forsythia in Madame Potts’ pristine garden.

After lunch Belle wandered back to the library. She picked up a thick book on the legends of _Broc_ _éliande_ and curled up on the window seat but she never turned a page. She thought about her Papa, about Killian’s temper and about the remaining debt. She thought about Monsieur Gold and the promises he’d made to sort things out. She thought about the determination in his face when he made that promise, the way he’d cradled her into his side and buried his face in the hair by her ear, whispering words of atonement and comfort.

“I’ll take care of it, Belle,” he’d said. “He’ll never touch you again, _Dear_.” He’d called her _Dear_? Belle’s heart fluttered in her chest and she unconsciously touched the spot. She missed him. It was a beautiful house –a lovely haven far removed from the shoddy hole she’d spent the past weeks in, but he was absent and she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him until he’d held her in that cold, dark street. How long had he lived in this house? Belle glanced around the richly furnished library until her eyes fell on a long mahogany desk. It was majestic and imposing but from a different period than the rest of the room’s pieces. She left her book by the window and crossed over to the button-tufted green leather wing chair behind it. The desk had seven drawers and Belle explored every one of them. Inside, she found old receipts and various other paperwork. In the center drawer was a framed photograph of a smiling young boy with mousy brown hair and familiar large, dark eyes holding a lovely woman’s hand. The woman was about Belle’s height and build but her hair was long and dark and her eyes were that same familiar honey brown. They were standing in front of a small stone building and the sea was at their left. Belle didn’t remember seeing that building but she recognized the rocky shore. Carefully setting the picture back in the drawer she followed her curious whim back to the seaside.

From her wide, flat boulder she could see the curve of the shore. With the ocean on her left, Belle began to pick her way across the rocks until she rounded the first jut of land. Here, the boulders stopped and a small beach rose up from the water’s edge. Guarded by immense cliffs on three sides, a small stone structure was tucked away from the reach of the sea. Breathless from the exertion and the excitement of her find, Belle didn’t give a second thought to turning the handle of the cracked and rotted door. It opened surprisingly smoothly for its apparent age. 

Inside it was dark and the air was stale; Belle waited for her eyes to adjust. It was a small, single roomed cottage furnished simply and humbly. There were four round windows in the rough rock walls, a cracked leather armchair sat by the small stone fireplace, a crude wooden table with two chairs, a twin cot with a faded quilt, a wooden chest and an antique spinning wheel. Belle fingered the top of the chest. It sat no higher than her knees and spanned the width of her open arms. It was painted with bright colors in a child’s style with depictions of the sea and the sky. There was no lock, but the lid was heavy and cumbersome. Belle knelt absently on the dusty wooden floor and sorted through the contents. There wasn’t much inside, a knitted soft wool blanket, a thick bound stack of playbills, and a large black book. Belle picked up the book –a ledger. Various names of people and businesses with amounts of money spanned the pages in a script that wasn’t Gold’s. A thin sheet of paper slipped from the pages to her knees.   

 

_Dear Andre,_

_I’m so proud of the man you’ve become. Life has not always been kind, mon fils. The fact that Marcel is ready to hand over the business shows how strong you’ve grown. He is a good man who’s provided well for us, but remember this: it was the dark side of this business that killed your father. Don’t get lost in the shadow games that you will invariably have to walk in. Remember that the men and women in this ledger are people with families. Think carefully before you act on anything._

_Avec tout mon amour,_

_Ta M_ è _re_

 

Belle saw the cottage for what it was: a hallowed tomb. Memories had been shut away here, _purposefully_ forgotten. She felt like she was trespassing. When she’d shut the door she saw the crumbling steps that ascended the face of the western cliff. With the tide coming in this was her only option. The climb was slow and tiresome but not dangerous. The steps had been crafted with care. Belle meditated on the letter from Gold’s mother. She realized that she understood nothing of Gold’s business or how he’d accumulated his wealth. She knew he kept an office two blocks from the ballet house and that his business connections had given her entrance to the most elite groups in Parisian society. His work took him away at odd hours any time of the day or night, but he never spoke of it and she had never asked.

The sun had set by the time she reached Chateau de la Rivage. The lights were lit and her senses were struck with the sweet and salty aroma of dinner. Marco served up large bowls of _moules marinaire_ , mussels steamed in a sweet broth, and shared humorous stories of his years in the war. The three chatted amiably in the warm kitchen until Belle retired to her room. She dreamt of the sea; of a little cottage where a woman sat at a spinning wheel; and of large, dark eyes in the face of a little boy who whispered, “ _Vous n’avez rien_ _à craindre._ I’m here now.”   


	13. Cane and Chrome

Back in Paris, after safely delivering Belle to his Chateau outside Marseille, Gold’s first order of business was to stop the bleeding. This meant dealing with Maurice permanently, so that Belle wouldn’t be whisked off again so easily. After the night at Killian’s club, Hopper attained more information about Maurice’s habits and circumstances. Gold tried calling the number from Hopper’s cell phone, but it merely rang on end with no answer. His only dwelling was the address he had, but he frequented a couple of local establishments regularly enough that they often put him up for the night. He’d start there.

 Luckily for Gold, his search was short. He found Maurice holed up in the first one he checked. After assuring the owners of his intentions and lining their pockets nicely, they gave over his key. The room was dark and musty with a single bed and no sheets. On it lay a balled-up mass of flab and rags that were distinctively Maurice. Not wanting to touch him, for fear of contracting something, Gold nudged him with his cane. When that didn’t work he grabbed the glass of… _something_ … on the floor next to the bed and splashed its contents on Maurice’s slobbering face. The sluggard choked and gagged himself awake. “Monsieur Dupont, we need to speak.”

 Maurice’s anger paled to fear when he realized who woke him. Monsieur Gold lorded over him like a judge, both hands now resting atop his cane. He simply waited for Maurice to get his bearing. “What do you want? How’s Belle? Is she okay?”

“Belle is safe. Oui. I’ve taken her somewhere to recover, but now I have to deal with you. First, I don’t say this much, so listen carefully because I won’t say it again. Thank you.” It pained him to say it, but Gold was not above giving credit where it’s due, though this, by no means, opened the doors of affection toward this sorry excuse for a man. The only reason he gave Maurice a second thought was because of his relation to his Belle and her persistent efforts to connect with him.

Maurice wasn’t sure what Monsieur Gold was thanking him for, but he daren’t ask. “Of course.”

“Now, how do we make sure that nothing like this happens again? I can’t have Belle running after you to help fix your little problems now can I?”

“No, you’re right. I-I told Belle you were right. You’ve made a nice life for her. She should go back to you. Killian is a villain. When I heard her running out of The Jolly Roger, I knew he’d done something terrib–”

Holding up his hand to stop the babbling, Gold looked in Maurice’s eyes. “Let’s make a deal.” What could Mr. Gold want with _him_? His clothes were tailored and trimmed to perfection. His high polished shoes were made of some animal skin and picked up the flickering light from the street below. His cane was exquisite – a dark wood with a vine patterned gold handle. Even his skin glistened with richness as he stood there in the half lit room talking of deals. Maurice only owned two complete outfits, nothing was tailored or even clean for that matter and his shoes were a couple sizes too small with a hole in the bottom of each one. He had nothing to offer.

“I’ll handle Killian and you’ll owe me.” Gold’s offer was more of a demand than an option. The way he said “handle Killian” left no doubt that this was _exactly_ what he would do.

“Owe you what, Monsieur Gold? What you see is what I have. It’s nothing…”

“Monsieur Dupont, I do not need money or possessions. No, no, no. What I collect is _people_. I believe I could make use of your services.”

“Umm, okay. What do you want me to do?”  

“Well I’m not sure yet, but I’ll let you know when the time comes. For starters, stay away from Belle.” The tense jaw and fiery eyes harbored in Gold’s face were not lost on Maurice this time. “And here is the number of a man who’s expecting your call tomorrow. He’ll determine the best use of your… skills.”

“Umm. Okay. _Tres simple, Merci_! But what if she comes to me again?”

“You let me worry about that. You contact the man on that card. I have your number. I’ll be in touch. Oh, and you’ll probably need to relocate. I suspect Monsieur Jones will be looking for you. You’d better hope I find him first.” With that, Gold disappeared down the dingy hall, into the darkness of the night, leaving Maurice to ponder all that had happened.

 

A man like Killian was difficult to corner. A man like Gold had the resources and ability to make it happen. The day Gold arrived back in Paris, he assigned Hopper to track down Killian while he dealt with Maurice and various other matters in his estate. Jones was oddly absent from The Jolly Roger. Turned out that Jones was hospitalized for the injuries he’d sustained, and after taking a moment to be proud of Belle’s retaliation against the blaggard’s advances, Gold set off to find him.

He arrived too late; Monsieur Jones had already been checked out by some woman the nurse described as elegant and a bit melodramatic. With the nurse’s back turned, Gold skimmed the visitor log and noticed an oddity: Regina Prevot’s name carelessly scribbled across one of the lines. _What was she doing here? Where were they?_

With no lead to pursue, Gold and Hopper staked out The Jolly Roger until he surfaced. On their fourth day in Paris, they caught sight of the fish they were looking to net.

The club would close in an hour or so. Hopper dealt with the grumpy fellow at the door, while Gold strode confidently into the risqué club that had stolen away his Beauty and tried to tarnish her. Surveying the scene he saw a multitude of scantily clad girls walking around serving drinks – one danced on the stage, if you could call it that. Strobe lights flashed and the amped up music vibrated against his chest. One by one, each head turned to him. He recognized some of the faces from past deals he’d done. They were businessmen mostly, some corrupt cops and bureaucrats. Since he dealt through a good deal of anonymity these days, they weren’t likely to recognize him. He only made his identity known for important or personal matters.

“I’m here for Monsieur Jones,” he announced as a matter of fact. “The rest of _you_ would do well to leave… now.” With a strange power to command, the riff-raff obeyed and began to scatter. “Where’s your boss?” he asked Leroy. With a single pudgy finger, the man pointed behind the bar; “probably in his office.” As the vagabonds and vagrants slowly filed out of the club, Gold stalked away – toward a much anticipated revenge. “Hopper, wait here with _Grumpy_.”

“The name’s Leroy, Bub!”

Hopper settled himself next to Leroy. Making polite conversation, he extracted what information he could about Killian and the business. Hopper was an unassuming fellow of taller stature, but his round wire-rimmed glasses and mild mannered voice deceived most people into believing he was soft. On his own, his clothes were humble and a bit dated. Often times he would have to change an outfit to fit Mr. Gold’s standards of public appearance. His parents had hardened him early through their unloving, thieving, and manipulative lifestyle. He may have been outwardly unassuming, but he was determined in his goals and manner of achieving them and the psychological nature of his approach in pursuing his agendas was ingeniously effective. Gold appreciated his way of seeming to know what to do and when to do it, though he never expressed it. After all these years together, he trusted Hopper with any matter of business, but this next bit was personal and needed Gold’s unrelinquished attention. 

As Gold circled the bar, the clip-clop of his hard soled shoes drew him back in time. It was a constant sound in his life. He remembered the sound of those shoes when his father returned home from conducting business each evening. Countless nights after young Andre had gone to bed, he’d drift off to sleep with the clip-clop of those shoes on the other side of his door, comforted by the knowledge that his father was home.

Late into his teenage years, after his father had been murdered and his mother remarried, the sound continued on. His stepfather was a powerful man – perhaps the _most_ powerful. Everyone in France knew who he was. He owned many businesses and had influence in all matters that he concerned himself with. He was a regular at the ballet where Gold’s mother was the long-time prima.

This man, too, wore hard soled shoes, but unlike his father the sound of comfort was secondary to power and position. Poor men, lower-class men, men who could afford nothing better, these men wore soft shoes. It was the powerful men who got noticed without saying a word. These shoes announced to the world that the man wearing them was to be taken seriously. After Gold had injured himself and could no longer dance ballet, his stepfather groomed him for the family business, eventually handing over the reins – that was decades ago. He had walked in that undisputed power for a long time now and he learned to use it well.

His hard sole echoed off the tattered walls as he strode through the back hall, on his way to _revanche_. Lani, Ashley, and the other dancers dotted the hall with curious, frightened glances.  Gold didn’t give them a second look; he stepped through the door and slammed it behind him.

Killian sat in his wing-backed, brass-studded, leather desk chair with his back facing the entrance. Turning around slowly at the sound of the door, he gave Gold a quick once-over. “You must be Monsieur Gold!” he proclaimed as if he were the host of a grand hall. “Genie told me I should probably expect you. Although I must say, by the way she described you I would have thought you a _bigger_ man.” Reclining back with an oily grin he resumed, “I have to admit I’m not all that impressed. Though I _do_ like your shoes… Are they crocodile?”

Gold’s demeanor didn’t flinch at Killian’s over inflated ego. “Here’s the thing,” he snarled through clenched teeth, “you took something dear to me; and now I’m here to take it back.”

Sitting up in his chair Killian produced a chrome handgun from his lap and placed it in the center of the desk. “Am I being threatened by a cripple on a cane?” There was a slight pause as both men took the opportunity to size each other up. “You see, I’m actually glad you came.” Killian’s cocky smile began to stir Gold’s blood. “That _bitch_ and her drunkard father still owe me, and I think you may be able to help.”

The comment sent Gold two quick strides forward, causing Killian to snatch up the gun and cock back the hammer. Gathering his composure, Gold glared intently “And why would I help you?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure to do worse to her, than she did to me.” With that, Killian placed his other hand on the desk – only this wasn’t a hand at all. Instead, a large silver hook gleamed from the cuff of Killian’s black coat. “When she slit my wrist I grabbed a bar rag to stop the bleeding. Bloody infection lead to an amputation.” He took a minute to admire his choice. “I was offered a prosthetic or a mechanical claw, but they just seemed so… weak. Instead I opted for something useful. Oh, I’m still adjusting… but I have _plans_ for this hook – starting with that _Princess_.”

Gold slammed his cane on the desk as he leaned over to within a foot of Killian’s face.  “If you’re smart, you’ll drop the plans and leave town, before I kill you.”

Chuckling at the thought and waving the gun around a bit loosely, Killian looked at Gold, “And how would you–”

He’d barely mouthed the words before he lost the ability to speak. With a speed and force that defied his age, Gold jabbed the gold handle of the cane into Killian’s throat.  As he choked for air, Gold swung the cane sideways, knocking the gun out of his grasp and onto the floor, discharging the cocked shot into the wall behind Gold. Still gasping, Jones dashed around the side of the desk clawing for the gun. Instead he was met by an upward swing of Gold’s cane into the soft cartilage of his nose, hurling him backwards. Gold was unrelenting – landing a furious onslaught of blows to his pretty face and body.

Killian was reduced to minimizing the damage, as he attempted to shield himself from Gold’s flogging. Amidst the sounds of cracking bones and enraged grunts, Gold heard a familiar jingle – a soft chirping. It was his phone.

 _Who would be calling right now?! The only people with his personal number were Hopper, Marco, and…_ The realization jerked him out of his rage. Hopper wouldn’t call right now, nor would Marco. It must be…

Seeing the bloodied mess that was Killian Jones before him, Monsieur Gold changed his method. Snatching up the gun from the floor, he pointed it at Jones. Mustering what little courage he had left, Killian faced the barrel straight on.

Gold unloaded three shots. They whizzed past Killian’s head into the wall behind him. Walking to point blank range, and pressing the gun to his forehead, Gold reiterated his promise, “Leave town or I _will_ kill you.” Before Killian could respond, Gold struck him one last time – the butt of the gun jammed into his already broken nose, rendering Killian unconscious.

Looking down at the hauntingly familiar grip in his hand, Gold recognized the chrome piece as a throw away gun given out to low level enforcers and traffickers back during the days of the French Connection. The serial number was thoroughly filed off – a trick his stepfather had mandated years ago. Gold had been issued a few of his own over the years before being promoted. He pocketed the piece of nostalgia and took a moment to compose himself. After straightening his suit and his hair, he opened the door to the office just in time to see the curious observers scatter to their various nooks and crannies. Removing his phone from the inside pocket of his coat, he confirmed his suspicion. She _had_ called him.

As his boss emerged from the hallway, Hopper rose quickly from his seat. “Thank you for the help, Leroy.” After shaking the man’s hand, he turned and opened the door to follow Monsieur Gold through the exit. “Leroy and I gathered her things from the apartment upstairs. There wasn’t much, but it’s all in the trunk now.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

“I heard gun shots. Do I need to call in the clean-up crew?”

“No. He’s alive… _for now_ ,” Gold smirked with a hint of disappointment. “If he’s smart, he’ll disappear, but I expect we’ll see him again.”

Hopper shut the back door of the black sedan and assumed his position behind the wheel.


	14. Call Me Andre

A haggard and spent Andre Gold left Paris early the following day with Hopper expertly navigating the country roads as they eventually reached le chateau a little before noon.  Geppetto greeted them with boisterous handshakes then helped Hopper unload the car while garnering bits and pieces about their trip. Gold’s responses, clipped and impatient as normal, were enough to silence anyone else, but the trusted Italian took it in stride; knowingly easing the conversation toward Belle’s activities at the shore and her passionate, if humbling, attempts at cooking. Tales of Madame Potts eating burnt brioche and disastrous meat pudding were enough to send the men into bouts of genuine laughter that rang down the halls to Madame’s keen ears.

“Come!” Madame Potts unceremoniously ushered Gold into the grand dining room where a large, thick wicker basket sat on the polished mahogany table. “Take this.” Madame tapped the handle with a satisfied grin. “She’s waiting on her _rocher_ , her boulder.” The little woman patted Gold’s arm fondly and turned back to her kitchen. “It’s good to have you home Monsieur.”

Gold wasn’t sure why he began to wander down to the shore instead of up to a hot bath and much needed shut-eye, but he faithfully followed his feet down the familiar dusty gravel path through the old garden, plucking a deep red rose that caught his eye on the way.  On a whim he stopped short of the stone steps and leaned over the thick wooden rail in search of Belle, out on the shore. She was perched just as Madame had intimated: on a large flat rock, twenty paces from the stair. Facing the reflective pool before her, she was resting on her belly, propped up on her elbows. Her dress was a thin white cotton that puckered in gentle folds between and around her sun-bronzed thighs. Her long golden hair twisted in a haphazard knot at the base of her head while she read. Little bubbles of laughter and haphazard comments she made to herself, made Gold appreciative of the moment he had to observe her. It pleased him to watch this golden goddess so at ease on his home shore.

With a gust of warm July breeze, Gold shirked out of his sport coat and tie, draping them over the rail as he descended carefully with the basket slung over his arm. The sky was cerulean blue and the sea was tame for the moment, gentle ripples lapped idly at the boulder-strewn shore.

The familiar rustle and tap of cane and shoe turned Belle’s head. She rolled onto her back and gazed up at a face, fully shadowed by the noonday sun. A breath of salty sea air mingled with cedar and musk was all the incentive she needed to jump up and give him a proper once-over before flinging two sun-baked arms around his neck. His heady scent and soft hair against her nose was intoxicating as she instinctively nestled her head in the crook of his neck. His left arm wrapped around her, causing something hard to thump against her backside.

“What was _that_?”

Gold’s mahogany eyes twinkled with mischief as he held up the heavy basket with a lopsided grin. “Hungry?”

“Starving!” Belle traded places with the basket on his outstretched hand, expertly guiding him through the complex labyrinth of rocks to a stretch of soft sand just beyond. Together, they unpacked the red and white quilt and plopped down to unload the banquet Madame had prepared. There was a bottle of _Pineau de la Loire, pavé_ _blesois_ cheese, two baguettes _, and rillettes_ –seasoned pulled pork, with twin _chocolat opéras_ awaiting them for dessert.

Belle unpacked the dishes and flatware and the two of them lunched until they were full. They quickly fell back into a comfortable routine, talking and laughing while Belle shared her own versions of the adventures she had in his absence. The two contentedly stretched out, side by side as they continued to reminisce and stare out at the cloudless sky.

The once enthusiastic conversation waned into a natural silence as each of them simply enjoyed the renewed presence of the other.

“I…uh. Thank you. I wanted to _thank you_ … for being there.” Belle’s hand found his as she entwined her fingers between his long, lean ones. His thumb brushed over her knuckle with soft, rhythmic strokes and the faintest of sighs escaped his lips.

Keenly sensing the weight she still carried, he spoke directly to her heart. “Your father is safe. He’s taken care of.” The words rang comfort to Belle, even though she’d sensed this truth already. This quiet, powerful man she was coming to care for would handle her father as he did all details, with a meticulous care that went unappreciated by most.

“I’ll pay you back some day, Monsieur,” she whispered into his side.

He lifted his head and propped on one elbow to look down on her face. “I don’t want you to pay me back,” he whispered softly, “and Belle, please. Call me Andre.”

Her nervous lower lip slid in and out of her upper teeth as she met his steady gaze. God, she was beautiful! Gold cupped her right cheek in his palm and ran his thumb over the little worn lip, soothing the swollen skin. “Andre…” She whispered the name softly as she closed her eyes at his gentle touch.

Even with her eyes closed, Belle felt his breath draw closer as his head leaned tenderly toward her own. The tip of his nose traced a path across her brow as the stubble of his cheek rubbed against her smooth one. Realizing his presumption, he paused slightly against her forehead. So much time had passed since their first kiss – an accidental surrender they never spoke of. He longed for her in _every moment_ since then, but never allowed himself to dwell in the dream for too long. He prayed the moment wouldn’t end, but feared scaring her.

Belle sensed his need for encouragement and cupped the back of his neck bringing his mouth to hers. His lips were soft and warm as they pressed against her own. She parted her lips to invite more as their tongues began to intertwine. He hungrily explored the roof and walls of her mouth, tasting and caressing every inch with unbridled yearning. Never before had he found such satisfaction in a kiss. The energy with which they met called up a longing from the outermost reaches of his being. Every part of him was giving itself to this kiss.

Belle’s hands cupped his shoulders tightly, holding him close to her while his fingers broke through the little knot at the base of her head, spilling the bright tresses freely around them. She eagerly welcomed his touch. Their first kiss was so powerful and he ran off so suddenly, she began to doubt that it would happen again. Her mouth massaged against his in an attempt to combat any anxiety. The fiery arousal it stirred in her grew as they devoured the moment.

Alternately combing and fisting silken handfuls of curls Gold deepened their kiss, expressing desire, anguish and hope in a way he’d never dared put into words. The moist sea breeze sprayed against them as they enveloped themselves in a long desired rapture. Not wanting to press too far, he summoned what remaining restraint he could muster and finally concluded the perfect moment. When their lips finally parted, they each found themselves panting for vital gulps of air. Gold tenderly lowered his forehead to hers and teased a loose yellow spiral around his finger before they locked eyes and smiled at one another.

“You know, you look like an angel –almost ethereal like this…however, I do miss your hair,” he sighed timidly.

Belle kissed his nose lightly and grinned. “You know, Marco bought me the dye in town a few days ago, I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. I suppose I could…” she smiled invitingly, “if I had a little help.”

Gold beamed like a schoolboy and rose to his feet, offering her his left hand. “Well what are we waiting for?” They quickly gathered the picnic and strolled back to the chateau, walking hand-in-hand. The help was nowhere to be found as the happy couple entered the stone shelter, dropping the basket and blanket on the buffet next to the rear entrance.

They ascended the mahogany staircase to Belle’s bedroom. Arriving at the door, Belle swung around and placed her flat palm in the center of his chest, barring his entrance. “I need to change first so I don’t ruin this dress,” she grinned.

“Oh. Of course! I’ll wait here.”

“You’d better!” she playfully retorted then pressed a gentle peck to his lips before retreating inside. Gold took a moment to reflect on the past hour. Had they finally kissed again? Could she really want him? Would she still want him after she found out about him?

The door popped open to reveal Belle in a tightly cinched cotton bathrobe and her usual pink fluffy slippers. “Alright I’m ready.” She turned and walked into the adjoining bathroom. “The box is on the counter. You’ll probably want to read the instructions while I wet my hair.”

Gold warily picked up the foreign container. Examining the picture of the woman on the box, he thought to himself how much more beautiful Belle was than she. The hair color on this woman would never be as alluring as Belle’s, but it would be a marked improvement over the unnatural blond she now sported.

Flipping open the package he found a confusing combination of elements and followed the instructions with the precision of a physicist, mixing the thick, creamy, larger tube into the bottle and setting aside the conditioner for later use. Belle knelt down and flipped her wet hair over her face into the tub. Andre perched on the edge beside her, brow furrowed, gloved hands massaging the dye through four sections with slow, deliberate care. When he’d finished to his satisfaction, he discarded the gloves, set a timer on his cell phone and tucked a soft towel around Belle’s shoulders before she turned to face him.

“It says we have to wait twenty minutes before you rinse it out.” He drank in the comforting, familiar hue against her creamy skin and cornflower blue eyes and smiled appreciatively. Belle’s cheeks grew warm and she fidgeted against the tub to find a comfortable angle to recline.

“Umm, so your home is beautiful! Did you grow up here?”

“Non,” Gold shook his head slowly, making a futile attempt to wipe away some stray splatters from his pinstripe slacks. “I grew up in a small house in the city. My father’s business was in Paris –he could never have lived this far away from his work.”

“What did your parents do?” Belle prodded further.

“My mother was a ballerina,” he said gazing into a memory. “She started with the Scottish Ballet in Glasgow, and moved to France when she was sixteen to join the Paris corps de ballet. My father was a French businessman. They met, fell in love, and were married when my mother turned eighteen. A year later they had me.”

“Is that why you became a danseur, because of your mother?”

“Yes. I grew up in the theater, getting myself into unruly mischief. I attended every rehearsal and performance with my mother. I learned well from some of the greatest teachers, filled in where I was needed as a boy, and eventually took center stage.”

“And then…you were injured?” Gold shifted uncomfortably and checked his cell phone.

“Time to condition,” he said with visible relief. “I’ll wait out here. Let the contents of the small bottle soak in your hair for a while before you rinse.” Without another word he grabbed his cane and shuffled softly out the door, shutting it on his way out.

When Belle emerged Andre was leaning against the wall, staring out the window to the open sea. His back was turned, but he swiftly twirled around to see the reveal.

“Well, how do I look?”

Gold stood in awe for a moment before an impish smirk creased the corner of his mouth. “You’re radiant!”

Belle smiled and handed him her brush as they walked to the edge of the bed and sat together. She curled up on her knees beside him. With meticulous strokes he began to slowly comb through the thick, wet tresses, holding and subsequently releasing his breath in turn with every knot he encountered.

“When I was wandering through your grounds,” Belle broached carefully, “I came across a cottage down the shore.” Gold’s hand paused mid stroke for a long moment before he resumed his task.

“Oh really?”

“It looks like no one’s been there in years, but it seems like it was a beautiful, cozy place at one point. What was it used for?”

“That was my mother’s personal retreat.” Gold took a deep breath, realizing the topic he would now have to lay bare before her. “That was a room she used when my stepfather had business in the house.” Belle’s silence encouraged him to continue.

“You see… I didn’t grow up here, in this house, but I _am_ quite familiar with it. We would visit it a couple of times throughout the year so Marcel could entertain business acquaintances.”

“Was Marcel your stepfather then?” Belle asked inquisitively.

“Yes. My father was murdered when I was eight years old.” A slight gasp slipped Belle’s lips as she listened motionlessly. “My mother was devastated, but I did my part and tried to step up as the man of the house in his absence. When I was nine, however, my mother remarried an older man named Marcel.”

Belle immediately recalled the name from the letter she found in the cottage.

“He was a very successful businessman. He had a diverse empire that reached into transportation, business investments, banking, and even politics. His word meant everything. When people broke deals or went back on their word, he became ruthless. He traveled a lot to handle his business and during the off seasons, my mother and I would accompany him here when he had important guests to entertain.”

The long brush strokes became slower as Gold continued on, but Belle sat up attentively and patiently waited for him to dissect the details. “As I grew up and spent most of my time with my mother, I became a danseur. Marcel tolerated my career, but constantly reminded me that a man needs ‘a real job.’ And that soon he would expect me to work for him. He was quite satisfied to see me leave the ballet after I was injured.”

Like pieces of a large, abstract puzzle Belle gathered the vague bits of information Gold fed her and compared it to her own discoveries. Her own mind filled in the blank places Andre so painstakingly skirted. Marcel was a mobster. Hadn’t she seen the name in headlines growing up? It made sense -the chateau he never visited, the family he never mentioned, the way he ferociously guarded her potential.

Gold had stopped brushing and she pivoted to face him. His eyes were so sad, so frightened but resolute, begging her to understand what he was trying to say. And then like a wave striking the shore it hit her –the endless phone calls, the business at all hours, the connections, the wealth, the fearful respect others showed him, how her father had known to go to him for money…Belle squeezed her eyes shut and froze. She couldn’t look at him. She didn’t know what she thought, much less what to say, but that’s what he wanted –wasn’t it, for her to say something? Tell him that it was all okay –that she wasn’t upset or sickened by what he was; by this business he’d continued in the name of his stepfather.

Gold didn’t wait for an answer. “You must be hungry. I’m sure Madame and Marco have had our dinner ready for hours. I’ll leave you to change, _Chère_.”

After a while Belle rose stiffly and slipped into a cotton blouse and jeans. With no one to witness, she sighed audibly and palmed her forehead. His life was a web of deception and corruption. But he had always been this way – long before she had known him, before he had seen her potential and plucked her away from the corps. He should have told her, it was true, but then he hadn’t expected to love her and of everything she’d learned today that was the one thing she was sure about. Andre Rochon Gold loved her and trusted her. He wouldn’t have shared so much if he didn’t trust her with this. There were so many questions she wanted to ask and so many more things she felt she needed to understand. She wouldn’t shun his trust or his love. She would learn all she needed to know in time. 


	15. Je t'aime, Belle

Belle’s trip to Angelina’s Tea House on the rue de Rivoli was Andre’s desperate attempt to lure the grumpy ballerina into a state of compliance and dig himself out of the doghouse. A week of harrowing practice and very little rest were shaping Belle’s attitude into something “less than desirable”. Plus, there _was_ the little incident where he’d haphazardly compared her petit jeté to a hippo with a tantrum. Gold hazarded a side-glance in Belle’s direction. She was busy, looking around, taking in the café’s la belle époque interior. She took such dainty sips of her _chocolat l’africain_. Andre followed her little pink tongue as it darted out to swipe a stray dollop of cream from the corner of her mouth. When she caught him looking at her she sighed with a deep breath and offered him a smile as peace offering.

“ _Alors_ …that was soothing wasn’t it?” Andre prodded with a sheepish grin.

“It was delicious, but I’m still getting a foot rub later!” Belle wrinkled her nose across the table at him. This past week had been the most grueling practice of her life, but having Andre’s affection and tenderness had dulled the sting a bit and she couldn’t blame him for everything. It was her own fault that she chose to curl up by the fire and talk with him late into the night instead of getting much needed rest. Belle offered him the last few bites of her _mont blanc_ and happily watched him finish it off as she reflected on the conversation they’d had two nights ago.

They’d come to a fragile agreement regarding his “business”. He’d promised to keep things as honorable as he possibly could and she had been relieved to discover this was his own desire and not just hers. Gold had also shared with her about his son, Bailey, and the boy’s discontented mother who’d abandoned him when he was three. “I raised him the only way I knew how,” he’d said with his eyes averted and his hands clenched tightly in his lap, “-in the organization; but, the older he got, the more he resented the business. After high school he left.” Belle knew the young man called him once or twice annually in the midst of traipsing about Europe, but her heart grieved that he hadn’t _seen_ his son in seven years. Andre could be demanding and downright beastly at times, but he had a good heart and he loved his son unequivocally.

Gold rested his fork on the edge of the plate and leaned back in his chair with a lopsided grin. “What are you thinking about?”

Belle unconsciously nibbled her lower lip. “Oh, a little bit of everything.”

“Forgiven me yet?”

“Oui,” Belle reached across the table and gave his arm a forgiving squeeze. He snatched her little peach hands between his two lean, warm ones and pressed a light kiss to the center of each palm before releasing them.

“I’ll be late if we don’t leave.”

“Bah… oui,” Gold conceded regretfully as he stood and pulled out her chair. “But I’ll see you for dinner tonight,” he added brightly. “Give Hopper a call when you’re ready. I’ll have him bring your dress.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead and spread his hand along the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd and out to the car.

 

“Sunday!”

“Marie! I’m so happy for you!” Belle squealed and wrapped both arms around her friend. “Do you have a home yet? Will you still be in the corps?”

The book fair was thick with locals and tourists but Belle and her friends didn’t mind. They weaved pleasantly through the colorful throng, enjoying the uncharacteristically breezy summer day and the company of one another.

“Oh, yes,” the dark haired girl hurriedly assured her. “Nothing will change. And we’ll be living in the same building as Ruby and Emma –only two floors up.”

“Good thing we won’t be able to hear you!” quipped Ruby with a loud, unladylike grunt. Emma took that unfortunate moment to sip her bottled water; a fist to the mouth saved them all from the spray. Ruby smacked her on the back and smiled unapologetically.

“It was a lovely little ceremony, just a handful of people. It was so spur of the moment and he planned the whole thing! I just showed up on the day. I’m so sorry you weren’t there, Belle. We did try to find you…” Marie lamented with a little pout.

“Oh, it was my own fault,” Belle dismissed with a wave, “too busy with audition preparations.”

“That’s not what we…” Emma was cut off by a jab in the ribs and a kick in the leg simultaneously by Ruby and Marie Michel. “What??”

Belle alternately blushed and paled as she searched all three sets of eyes in horror.

“It’s alright, Sweetie. We’ve all had to make difficult decisions. Getting a job…well, it’s a lot more difficult these days.” Marie leaned forward and smiled sympathetically.

“No…it’s not that…” Belle searched for the right thing to say. She couldn’t possibly tell them everything, and yet she did want them to understand. While she worried her bottom lip and absently fingered the spine of a cookbook, Emma wrapped an arm around Belle’s shoulders.

“You won’t find any judgment here.”

Ruby lowered her voice and leaned closer to Belle’s ear, “I know there’s more to this than you’re telling us, Belle, and we wish you’d let us in on what’s going on with you; but we just want you to know that we love you and we’re here for you whenever or _if_ ever you need our help.”

“How did you know?” Belle asked quietly. A thick crowd of tourists were swarming the booth where they stood so the little group moved into the shade of a nearby tree.

“David. I guess he was investigating some sort of criminal in that part of the city. He apparently followed the guy to the club one night and saw you there.” Marie Michel turned Belle to face her and didn’t speak until her friend looked her in the eye. “David and I went back the next day to find you, but the man at the door said you’d left. Do you need help, Belle?”

“No,” Belle answered steadily and finally managed a closed lipped smile. “I was in trouble –well, that is, my father was in trouble. I was trying to help him. The man there –he was horrible, but I’ve left and Andre has been such a help.”

The three girls gawked in disbelief at the slew of information and began talking all at once: “Your _father_? You found him?” “Andre? Since when is Monsieur Gold, ‘ _Andre’_?” “Who was that imbécile? I’ll knock his teeth in!” – Emma’s voice carried the loudest since the other girls comments finished by the time she made her heartfelt threat.

Belle smiled whole-heartedly, how could she not, with such loyal friends crowding around her? 

“It’s all worked out now. Monsieur Gold… Andre, took care of everything. Now it’s just me and the ballet again.”

There was teasing and prodding, long answers, cheerful banter, bags of books and Nutella crêpes. When the girls parted that evening Belle’s heart was lighter and her spirits much improved.

 

While Belle braved the masses at the city’s book fair, Gold attended to business at home. Still uncertain of Killian’s whereabouts, he made sure to have Hopper wait on the outskirts of the fair for Belle’s call with strict instructions to keep a watchful eye out for any suspicious activity.

In the midst of examining ledgers and calling various associates, Gold heard a knock at the office door. Marco entered boldly without waiting for any response. The old Italian had been a part of the family business for many years now, a little longer than Gold himself. He was Marcel’s choice for personal chef and had shaped Gold’s taste for finer foods so much, that he’d convinced the man to stay on after the business transferred hands. Marco’s wife was an old acquaintance too, having served as Bailey’s nurse after his mother left. Needless to say, Marco could push the envelope of propriety with Gold like no one else.

“Signore, I’d like a moment, per favore”

“What is it Marco? I’m busy,” Gold snapped briskly, returning his attention to his mess of papers.

“It’s about Belle.”

Gold sighed wearily and quirked an impatient, questioning brow at the old man before him. The pressing matters on his desk left little time to hear Marco out about his views on the young ingénue.

Marco continued on unfazed, “It’s just that I know how much you care for her. We all do: you, me, Hopper, Signora Potts, even Signore Jefferson… We’re so glad to have her back.” His hands flailed in typical Italian fashion before returning to a clasp at his middle.

“Yes, thank you Marco. We’re all glad she’s okay now.”

“That’s just it, Signore. I think…you should let her go.”

“What?!” Gold lept from his seat and leaned ominously over his desk. He couldn’t believe the impertinence Marco was showing tonight. “That’s not really your business now is it _chef_?”

“Well, I just remember Monsieur Marcel and your mother.” Gold was taken aback by the memory. He’d forgotten that Marco had been a firsthand witness to the effects of the business on their marriage. His old friend shifted agitatedly from one foot to the other.

“When Signore Marcel married your mother and brought you into the house it was wonderful. There was such _vita_! Signore was happy. She was happy. You were happy. Everyone was happy, but things changed.” Geppetto let the words hang a moment while Gold sat back in his chair thoughtfully. Then he continued.

“In this business there is a lot of death.” Gold’s brow furrowed as he contemplated the point that Marco could be making. “Your father was murdered because of a bad business deal. Signore Marcel was surrounded by darkness with all of his business. Your mother’s joy was killed by the business. That joyful boy who danced around the house was killed when he joined the business and took over… you were never the same, Andre. Your son hasn’t been home in _seven years_ because it started to kill him too.” The silver haired cook bowed his head somberly. 

“I just think that Signora Belle deserves better. She’s too pure… too _innocente_ , _perfetto_ to be hurt by this business, like so many others. She’s already been dragged in by her father, made to work at that _orribile_ club. Her purity needs to be protected, Signore, and I think the longer she’s around it, the quicker it will fade.” He released a deep, sorrowful breath and continued on.

“Either you let her go, or she will eventually die. Maybe not physically, but she will not be the same. It will change her.” Having said his piece, Marco humbly turned to walk out of the office.

“Marco…” Gold called out softly. As Marco stopped and turned, Gold rose from his chair and walked toward the cook. Reaching him, they stood in the doorway of the office. With a quick swing of his hand, Gold backhanded the old Italian straight across the cheek.

“You’ve been part of this family for a very long time, so I allow you some indiscrepancies with me, but if you ever presume to speak to me again regarding my mother, my son, or _Belle_ , you will do it in a respectful and _manière professionnelle_. If you don’t like this business, then you are welcome to leave any time. Otherwise, leave me to handle it how I see fit.” Gold’s eyes burned with indignation as he stared down the humbled family servant.

“Si Signore.” Geppetto turned and retreated back down the halls of the large house as Gold turned back to his desk, obviously flustered.

His mind raced over all that Marco had said. _How dare he speak about them like that! Dément old man…_ Gold tried to return to his paperwork, but it was useless. His mind was reeling around in decades past and a thousand miles away as he thought of his mother and Bailey. He didn’t have a choice. When he couldn’t dance anymore, he had to find an alternative way to make a living, a way to support his son. The only skills he had, he’d gotten from Marcel, the shrewd, calculated businessman, merciless and unyielding in deals had cloned himself in his eager stepson. What else could he have done?

Staring at his pile blindly, Gold began to seriously reflect on his life. He’d amounted a great deal of wealth and he _was_ getting older, but if he gave this up, then who would he be? He’d be just like his father…a nobody. He secretly realized the truth in Marco’s words as he pondered his path. Very few people in his life were able to withstand this difficult existence for long. It had, in all honesty, become quite lonely, but now he had Belle. Marco was right, she brought _nouvelle vie_ , new life, to him again.

His cell phone buzzed. It was Hopper calling to inform him that he and Belle were on their way. Snatching his cane, he left the mound of documents and determined to, once and for all, keep forever what was once so painfully separated from him. Tonight would be an important night.

 

“ _J’ai faim!_ I’m starved!” Belle smoothed the slippery pleats of her gold silk lamé gown with nervous repetition until Gold arrested one hand and tucked it safely in his arm. The waiter in black tie seated them at one of Lasserre’s most coveted tables.

“Nervous, My Love?”

“Non. Well…a little. Mostly hungry.”

Crystal chandeliers, arched windows with silk drapes, touches of white orchids and red roses against upholstered warm, butter yellow walls and the tinkling of ivory keys in a black lacquered piano gave this grand restaurant the private, luxurious feel the elite of Paris and the world over craved.

Unlike Le Grande Véfour, Lasserre’s atmosphere was hushed and intimate, allowing the couple to quietly converse over _amuses, foie gras_ with gingerbread _tuiles,_ roasted lobster tail on a bed of _mesclun_ vegetables, _foi_ stuffed pigeon, chestnut cream _mille-feuilles,_ and a vintage bottle of wine. Halfway through their meal, Belle was delighted to see the ornately painted ceiling slide apart to reveal the dark, starlit sky above their heads.

“Incroyable!” Belle reverently whispered with her crystal wine goblet suspended half way to her lips.

“I’m glad you like it.” Gold’s lips pressed together in a pale, determined line as he gazed possessively at his breathtaking enchantress. He’d already lost so much in his life, he’d be damned if he was going to lose her too. Reaching into his silk tuxedo pocket he slipped out a silver article and swiftly placed it before her.

His movement arrested her attention and she gasped in delight at the small sterling, star-shaped box on the table in front of her. The intricately textured lid was studded with pearls and sapphires imitating the night sky. Belle lifted the front clasp and gasped audibly at the glorious diamond ring embedded in the velvet lining.

“ _Je t'aime, Belle_ , from the moment I saw you, I have loved you,” Gold’s voice was thick and deep, his desire palpable. “You are the saving light amidst my ocean of darkness. All that’s good and pure in my world comes from _you_. I…can never lose you.”

It was perfectly executed, his words, the diamond, the moment –but some deep seeded caution held Belle back. His face was passionate and his words were true, Belle knew, but in his eyes…something in his eyes wasn’t quite right. She suddenly felt like the room with all its glitz and glamour was a bit stifling and they were sitting just a little too close. He sat quiet, watchful and intense –she felt baited like she was being ushered into a cage –a gilded cage to be sure, but a cage none-the-less. Andre loved her but even more than that he needed her and this need would swallow her whole. He wanted her safe more than he wanted her as his life-long-companion.

She loved him. _Oh, how she loved him!_ She would never love anyone else, but she could not do this. She could not feed this animal hunger that desired her body and soul. She would lose herself and if that happened…she would miss herself, so desperately.

She slid the silver box to the middle of the table and met his gaze openly. The blow was visible, the love in his sable eyes swallowed by a wild urgency.

“Don’t answer right now, Belle. Just think about it.” Gold plucked the ring from its velvet bed and captured her dainty hand within his own, slipping the band on her finger. She didn’t protest or pull away. His touch was like sunlight in the dead of winter. His warmth and protection consumed her senses. Her will precariously clung to her deep understanding as she fought with all of her mind to break free from his spell.

When he spoke again his voice was heavy, intense, fervent. “I know it’s a lot to ask for someone like you to love a man like me. But this _will not change_ , Belle. I will _always_ love you, from now, until eternity. There will never be anyone else for me, but you. Please…just think about it.”

Belle left the glittering band on her finger and drew in a slow unsteady breath before she met his gaze. “I can’t be your wife, Andre. I don’t approve of your way of life –your desire for power or your way of achieving it,” her voice was shaking but her eyes held his firmly. “I don’t want to be swept up in it. I want _you_ … _I love you_ , but I _cannot_ live in your world of hate and greed. I’ve seen it in Killian and his men. It only takes life –it never gives it.”

Gold made no move to release her imprisoned hand. He lifted it slowly to his lips and pressed a firm, but tender kiss to her knuckles. His gaze was calm and unfaltering. “I can make this hell better, Belle. I can be a better man, but I cannot do it without you. Keep the ring. It’s my promise to you. I’ll never want anyone else. I _will_ make our life a better fit for you, Dearest.”

The jewel felt foreign on her petite hand. Its pressure reminded her through the long ride home of Andre’s promises. He would try and she would wait. She hoped with all of her willpower that her heart would be steadfast, unwavering in its determination to not surrender too soon. Time would make the best of both of them and if she could only be patient they could begin their life without the burdens of the underworld crowding their bright little universe. 


	16. Nothing Constant But Change

The Jolly Roger was teeming with cat-calls and whistling gawkers. It was easy to get lost in the crowd tonight, but as Lani swung around the center-stage, brass pole she caught a glimpse of a familiar, queenly presence in the club. The lofty social climber carefully slithered her way through the crowd, past the stage and behind the bar, careful not to interact with the riff-raff so beneath her. Genie had made a lot of, not so discreet, visits this past week.

Lani and the girls had received a letter from Belle telling them of everything that had happened the night she left and since then, including her successful debut as prima ballerina. It was no wonder Regina was in such a constantly foul mood – tonight was different however. While she pompously snubbed the staff and lowlifes, her alluring red lips creased with a smirk of undeniable delight.

Lani finished her routine with a classic bump and grind, into her perfected shimmy then backed up and exited through the curtains. As the assistants cleaned up the stage litter, she made her way back to retrieve her waitressing shoes, pausing outside Killian’s office at the sound of raised voices.

“That cripple and his _pet_ have taken everything from us!” It was Regina’s shrill voice parading out the cracks in the door. “You said you could handle this, Jones! Do I need to get someone else on this? It seems to be getting away from you.” The last word was practically a snarl.

“No! This isn’t bloody over yet! I’ll be making a trip with Smee tonight to their little Chateau in Marseille. Word in the tabloids is that the Princess is tired and looking for a week-end retreat... my connections have got him tied up here for a couple of days. Tonight’s it, love.”

Lani looked around to ensure her secret observation wasn’t impeded on. The shadows moved beneath the doorway as the voices got a bit softer. She strained to hear the conspiracy over the thumping base and ridiculous rhythm down the hall.

“You need to be careful, Kil Dear. That _Inspecteur Général_ has been nosing around here asking about your import/export business. You can’t be tied to this. He can’t have anything to pin on us. Tonight has to be _clean_.”

“No worries, Love.  The old bat they’ve got cooking for them down there is bound to make some mistakes now and again. My guess is that she’ll _burn the place down_ before too long.” Even with the door closed, Lani could see the slimy grin spread across Jones’ face – it was always the same when he’d concocted one of his schemes.

“Fine. Just make it clean. I’d hate to see our arrangement go up in flames with the chateau if you’re too careless. Now I have to go…”

Lani didn’t wait to hear the good-byes but made a quick dash to her dressing room. She’d heard enough. She had to help somehow. She knew she couldn’t stop them, but maybe there was something else to be done.

She cornered Ashley backstage and asked her to cover. After throwing together a quick duffle, she darted out for her car and disappeared into the night.

 

Step up on the right leg, step side on the left, close the right leg, dip, step, turn and extend. _Parfait!_ Gold clenched and unclenched his black lacquered cane nervously, boring a multitude of potholes in the lush velvet carpet beneath his seat. “A performer of great wit and elan!” Le Parisien daily newspaper had reported this morning.  The entire house was besotted with her. Jefferson, _l’imbécile_ , was damn near incredible in his momentum and energy as he caught, carried and lifted her petite form. Gold wanted to take turns, knocking his head in and then shaking his hand with every completed promenade and supported pirouette where Belle’s limbs were preserved. Her audition had been flawless like this performance. The simpering, undisciplined Madamoiselle Prevot, had been left in the dust while Belle swept away with the prima ballerina title and brought the house to their feet opening weekend.

Belle concluded with traveling hops in arabesque on pointe, rounded her arms smoothly to first, lifted her chin and gently completed her port de bras. After the curtain call, Marie Michel wrapped her damp arms around Belle’s shoulders and gave her a congratulatory squeeze.

“You are simply –incroyable! I’m so proud of you!” Belle gave her a return squeeze as Marie led her off to the side and pivoted to face her. “David, is waiting in your dressing room.”

“Mine? Pourquoi?”

Marie leveled her green eyes at her cherished friend and eased a little sigh. “I can’t tell you…” she clutched Belle’s hands tightly, sincerity and sympathy painting her soft features, “but, please listen to him.”

When Belle reached her dressing room it was just as Marie Michel had described. Amidst the bevy of crimson roses and white orchids, David Rieu in his leather jacket and wrinkled black slacks looked sorely out of place, but he smiled warmly when she entered and pumped her hand with heartfelt congratulations.

“Did you get to see the performance tonight?”

David’s mouth fell despondently. “Non. I’ve been working a particular case and I…well, I couldn’t make it tonight. But I did see last night’s performance. Belle, Marie Michel and I both want you to know that we treasure your friendship. She’s always telling me what a merveilleux friend you’ve been to her and you’ve always been so encouraging and welcoming to me. We hope you know that we will always be here for you if you ever need help of any kind.”

Belle snatched up the clean towel on her dressing table and flipped it across her shoulders before casting a bewildering glance at the agitated Inspecteur in front of her.

David continued, “Marie told me what you shared with her about working at The Jolly Roger. What she couldn’t know, is that I’ve been aware of your situation and connections there for a while.” Belle looked increasingly tense, but David plodded forward with earnest purpose. “The man you know as Killian Jones is a renowned European smuggler and newly promoted Captain in the French mafia. I’ve been following his operation for two months now. The night I discovered you at the club was the night I pinpointed the headquarters for Jones’ operations. You see, the club wasn’t leased to Mr. Jones but to a C. R. Prevot. I had to investigate your connection with him and once I figured out the situation with your father your motive for working there was clear. What I wasn’t able to understand was how you were able to leave.” David took a long breath and perched on the end of her settee.  “A few days after you disappeared, I got a report that gunshots were fired from the club. When my men arrived on the scene they were able to ascertain from witnesses that someone had confronted Jones and beaten him to within an inch of his life. That man was Andre Gold.”

Belle sat down on the chair opposite him. She’d always known, hadn’t she? There had to be a reason Killian had given up so easily. She wanted to believe that Gold had simply paid off the debt, but deep down…Belle squeezed her eyes shut and released faltering staccato breaths. 

“Do you know who he is, Belle? Monsieur Andre Rochon Gold? He is the stepson of Marcel Francisci, none other than the godfather of the French mafia. Gold’s name has come up a couple of times in our records but his high-ranking level of involvement has never put him in a place where he had to get his own two hands dirty. He made a mistake with Jones. He should have left it to the authorities. Belle…” David leaned forward, regret and sadness lining his features, “we’ve started a full investigation. When we find anything to use, we’re looking to take him down along with Jones. If you’re going to distance yourself before this gets ugly, now would be the time.” 

 

Gold chatted impatiently with two dignitaries in the south wing of the theater. What was taking her so damn long? There were guards on every exit of the Paris opera house and one of his own men backstage for added precaution. Still, he clutched the harmless bouquet of wine red blossoms with heedless ferocity while the couple prattled on about banquets and charity balls. If it wasn’t for their invaluable connections for Belle, he would have quit their company minutes before. While the gentleman twaddled on about his yacht, Gold fingered the rectangular velvet box in his tux pocket. Belle’s dressing room was flooded with proof of his love and affection. Despite her regular chastisements and lengthy arguments, Gold always won out with his loopholes and debonair smile.

They’d dined out every night since her placement as prima, flitting from party to party, solidifying her new celebrity status and acceptance into the inner sanctum of the privileged, cultured elite. Belle tired of it all quickly, but he’d pushed on until she put her firm little foot down last night and demanded he give her a reprieve for the next few days she had off. Gold sulkingly agreed on the condition that he be permitted to whisk her away somewhere of his own choosing. Belle refused, insisting instead on a quiet couple nights at Chateau de la Rivage. Since Gold was unable to get away from the city until tomorrow, they’d agreed that Belle would go ahead tonight with Marco and he’d follow the next day.

When Gold couldn’t tolerate the conversation another minute, he made his excuses (rather poor ones, he had to admit) and turned toward the backstage. He’d barely taken five steps before she fluttered down the aisle and into his arms, tucking a weary head against his solid shoulder.

“Marco’s waiting out back.” He smoothed a stray lock from her forehead before running the same finger across her soft cheek and lifting her face to his. Dark eyes bored into her own, probing, searching out the answer he desired.

“I…don’t know yet,” she whispered gently against his wrist. Gold sighed and lowered his hand to rest between them on the handle of his cane.

“You’ll have time to think better when you’re away from all this,” he gestured loosely with a returning grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Oui!” Belle reached up on her toes to kiss his lips, arms circling his neck for balance.  He clutched her tightly to his chest with both arms, long fingers of his left hand curling through the glossy strands of her hair, while he returned her pressure with eager abandon for some time before pulling away. 

“You should go. I don’t want you on the road too late.”

“Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Belle beamed at him.

“Tomorrow, _ma belle_.”

The crisp night drive was a delight of its own. The full moon brilliantly lit up their trail along the highway. Marco shared comical incidents from Bailey’s childhood and kept Belle rolling with his humorous impressions of Madame Potts and his own dearly departed wife. The pair of midnight travelers carefully wound the countryside and finally approached the proud chateau late that night.

As Belle stretched out the tightness, she followed her courteous driver to the front entrance. They decided to leave the bags until the morning and instead make haste to the warmth of the beds that awaited them.

The lights were all off, except for a faint glow coming from the library window. “Signora Potts must be indulging in a late bevanda alcolica bevuta prima di andare a letto, maybe some of the Sherry…

Belle loosed a shrill scream at the site of Marco clubbed over the back of his head, but she was abruptly muffled by a firm, gloved hand over her mouth. Another arm reached around her stomach and pulled her tight. She squirmed forcefully to free herself, but froze when her hands grasped the cool steel hook on her stomach.

“Hello, Princess.” 

Streaming tears swiftly accompanied her terror when she realized who held her.

“I wouldn’t fight too much, Love. I’d hate to see this hook _rip_ into your supple flesh.” Belle stifled back a sob and bravely stood proud and stiff in the arms of her assailant. “Good girl. You remember Mr. Smee, don’t you? Note the gun he used to knock out that old man and don’t do anything stupid. Now let’s go into the library, shall we?”

She was instantly relieved to be released from his grip, but far from composed as she compliantly led Killian and Monsieur Smee through the dark corridors, dragging Marco behind them. When she stepped through the hall, a distinct smell pervaded her nostrils. As her foot splashed in a tiny puddle, the realization hit. All the curtains, furniture, and floor had been showered in gasoline. Upon entering the library, Belle noticed a body on the ground by the fireplace. Smee dragged Marco and plopped him down beside an unconscious Madame Potts!

“Now, as you see, the only other two people here with us are unconscious, and your beloved _pimp_ won’t be here for another couple of days.” Spit flew from his mouth as he emphasized the title he’d given Andre. “So have a seat.” Killian gestured to an arm chair in the center of the room and eyed Belle from head to toe while Smee bound Marco’s hands and feet. 

“You know Belle, I’m surprised at you. I would have thought you more _independent_ than this.”

“You don’t know anything–” Belle’s attempt to respond fell on deaf ears as he continued his monologue.

“But here you are, forsaking friends and family to be with what, an old crocodile?” Killian took a moment to show off the chrome hook which now replaced his hand. “I wanted to help, Love. Truly. Your father owes a lot of money and I was willing to work out a deal.”

“You wanted to help _yourself_ , Killian.”

“Is it wrong to reap a benefit from a good deed? I _do_ help myself when I can. And seeing you parading around each night with your class and technique – wearing all sorts of alluring accoutrements, can you blame me, Doll? Don’t tell me you never thought about it too.” Belle scoffed at the idea.

“Let’s reason together, shall we? Think about it, Belle. It didn’t take much to get you into the club.” Killian circled her slowly. Smee had finished with Marco and was now hastily zip tying her wrists to the arms of the chair.

“Tell me love. Was the _only_ reason you danced for me to help your father? Or was there something more? Inside… you wanted something else: to walk in the shadows for a while and taste the bittersweet flavors of sin; to experience the untamed passions of your youth, perhaps?” He poised over her and leaned into her side, brushing his course stubble against her smooth cheek.

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t still like to have a _taste,_ Love.” Hot breaths breezed across her ear as he opened his mouth against it. Belle bristled as his tongue flicked out and captured her dangling lobe in his mouth and shivered as his teeth bit softly into the small piece of pink flesh.

“There you go, Love. I see your goose bumps. Don’t deny it.” Killian moved his face directly in front of hers and whispered. “Now the way I calculate it, your father still owes me money and you cut off my bloody hand. Since your bumbling idiot of a father seems to elude me for the moment and I have you here before me, I’ll guess I’ll just take my payment from you.”

Belle clinched her mouth tight as his hand grasped her neck and pulled her face against his, but she dared not shut her eyes. As his probing tongue assaulted her lips, she noticed Smee simply kneeling beside them watching, as if he were waiting to finish. She then realized the lack of binding on her right leg.

“I really hate that it has to be this way Belle. After all, it’s bad form to have you tied to a chair and all, but we both know what happened last time you were loose.” Belle bit her lips and fought back a cry as he slid the tip of his hook across her arm, drawing ruby droplets from beneath the creamy skin. Slowly and carefully she repositioned her hips and slid one of her muscular legs slightly more center. Smee continued to stare on blankly as his boss forced himself on her and Killian began to work his way down her neck.

Quickly, with the force and technique of a seasoned athlete, Belle kicked her loose limb up between Killian’s legs. Her shin bumped against his knee, but it only slightly impeded her motion as she connected directly with his crotch.

The force of her sudden retaliation caused Killian to jump then reel over in agonizing pain. Anyone listening, might have thought she was the one screaming. Smee quickly arrested the rebellious leg and applied the last zip tie, then attended to his Boss. Belle knew that she had no way out, but smiled nonetheless at the glorious satisfaction of delivering a final blow.

As Killian choked and coughed for breath, he began to regain some strength enough to stand, albeit hunched over. “Bitch!” Grasping at his once proud manhood, “I thought you’d tied her up you idiot!”

“She’s tied up now, Sir. So sorry, Sir. You want me to light the place up, now?” Belle’s eyes widened with horror as she realized the moment had come.

“Yes. And don’t muck it up! Start in the back room, then burn as we go out. I don’t want you trapping us in here too.” The words sputtered out amongst grunts and coughs as Killian stumbled over to Belle, eyeing each limb to make sure it was secure. A quick and forceful slap crossed her face caused her chair to rock sideways then fall back again. Only to be met with a backhand in the other direction. The leather glove minimized the pain, but her cheeks glowed red and stung nonetheless. 

“I wish I could stay and enjoy your screams, but I wouldn’t want anyone to think I had anything to do with this.” He turned and hobbled his way out the door.

“He’s gonna find you, Killian; you too, Monsieur Smee!” Belle called after the two men as they made their hasty retreat.

When smoke and flame began to consume the Chateau, the last words she heard were Killian’s: “I hope so, Love. In fact, I plan on it.”

 

“Wake up! Wake up!!” _Smack!_ Lani palmed a firm slap across Belle’s face, jolting her conscious. “We have to get out of here! Hurry!” Lani was clutching a pair of silver plated scissors from Gold’s desk drawer. Belle realized her ties were already cut and immediately dropped on all fours to crawl in the direction of Marco and Madame Potts.

“I’m right here, Belle.” Marco scooped Belle off the floor and wrapped a solid arm around her waist. 

“Where’s Madame?” 

“I’ve got her!” Lani was propping up the still unconscious Potts while Belle and Marco slid under each limp arm in support. 

“This way!” Marco hollered, nodding his head toward the ornate marble fireplace. “Can you hold her?” Belle nodded mutely, thick black smoke stinging her eyes and burning in her throat. Lani and Marco pushed aside the marble column façade and waited while the heavy, stone wall groaned and pivoted open. Lani ducked through the opening in the left of the fireplace. It was barely wide enough for Marco and the still unconscious Madame Potts to squeeze through. Belle turned as the door slid closed and caught a last glimpse of bright orange flames dancing across the shelves, consuming every written word of their beloved library.

The tunnel wasn’t entirely smoke free but it was infinitely better. Lani lit the way down some stone steps below and into a long low tunnel. Belle resumed her position as Madame’s right support and they began to creep steadily through the cool, damp passage. 

“There are a few of these secret passages throughout the Chateau. Most of them never used, but this one…well this one was used quite often. There should be a gas lantern in the wall just up here.”

“Yeah, I see it.” Lani’s flickering cigarette lighter lit the wick and suddenly the tunnel was much less ominous. There was no end ahead, but the place wasn’t as filthy and decrepit as Belle was expecting. The stones were dry and smooth all around them and Belle saw no sign of vermin. They moved slowly, cautiously at first, but as the crashing noises above their head grew they picked up their pace and soon Lani announced a dead end. A stone ladder cut into the wall provided a crude entrance to the trap door above. Lani went first, followed by Belle, a hoisted Madame Potts, and finally Marco. Belle was only a little surprised to see that they were in Andre’s mother’s cottage by the sea.

“Where are we?” Lani glanced around curiously at the old fashioned surroundings while Marco placed Madame Potts on the narrow cot and checked her pulse.

“A very special place,” he answered with a knowing wink at Belle.

“Well, wherever we are –I’m just glad to be alive!” Lani froze as Belle flung sooty arms around her, hugging her warmly in gratitude.

“Thanks, Lani. If you hadn’t been there…” Lani blushed uncomfortably so Belle turned and introduced Marco and the sleeping Madame Potts. “Is she going to be alright, Marco?”

“Si,” He nodded confidently. “She’s just sleeping. I can smell the cooking sherry we suspected earlier. I suspect she got to it before they got to her.” Marco’s eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter. “And now, Belle, you need to leave.” As fast as the gentle humor came, it was gone, replaced by blunt sincerity. “It’s not safe for you here. Jones won’t stop, Belle. When he finds out you’re alive he’ll never stop.”

“What about Andre? I can’t just…”

“This will all sort itself out in time, but you must go somewhere safe until then. You can never be together as long as Signore Jones is coming after you.” Marco gripped Belle’s hand and led her tense form out the cottage door. The night was surprisingly bright, like dawn was hovering on the horizon, but Geppetto shook his head sadly. “ _E ‘notte_ , it’s night still.” Above the cliff and silhouetted tree line, a solid wall of curling smoke rose higher and higher. Scarlett tongues licked the night sky. The chateau wasn’t visible from where they stood, but the impact of what had happened struck Belle soundly and she retched into the sand. Geppetto calmly patted her back and waited for her to finish.

“He wouldn’t want me to leave. He loves me, Marco, he’ll come after me…”

“Not if he thinks you’re dead.” Marco’s expression was unreadable.

Belle blinked disbelievingly. “You couldn’t possibly expect me to…”

“I do. It’s the only way to keep you safe. I’ve heard that police nationale are close on Jones’ tale. If we give them time, things can sort themselves out.” 

“They’re after Andre too,” Belle added quietly. Marco arched a curious gray brow but shook his head firmly.

“They’ll never link him to anything. It’s all _smoke_ ,” he mocked, his snigger unnerving in the gravity of their situation. “You let me worry about him. In a couple of months this will work itself out and you can return.”

Lani joined them outside, her eyes transfixed on the bright flames and billowing smoke.

“I have family in Rome. They’ll take you in until it’s safe for you to return.” He cast a quick side glance at Lani. “You’d both better go.” Lani said nothing, simply nodded gravely, never averting her gaze from the rising pillar in the distance.

In the end, Belle had to agree with the others, that this decision was for the best. With Madame Potts soundly snoring away in the stone cottage, Marco escorted the ladies to Lani’s car tucked away in the woods, out of sight. He gave both girls giant hugs and emptied the contents of his wallet into Belle’s hands.

“This should cover the travel expenses. When you arrive at the address I gave you, my son will take care of everything until you return." 

Lani clutched the little scrap of paper in her fist, nodded briefly and slid into the driver’s seat.

“Ciao, Bella, _essere molto attenti_ , be very careful.”

As firelights blurred in the distance, Belle dialed David’s work cell.

David’s voice was comforting on the other end. “It’s a good idea, Belle. I’ll make sure your story is solid on this end. No one will know you survived. Stay low and keep safe. You sure you’re not hurt? Okay. Bonne nuit, Belle.”

“Bonne nuit, David.” Belle cast one last glance at the orange blur behind them before Lani turned onto the highway. 


	17. When In Rome

Piazza Navona was only a seven minute walk from Monti, Rome’s first ward or Rione I as the 18th century marble street markers said; so frequent visits to Belle’s favorite trattoria (Italian eatery) for pizzettas with tomato, mozzarella and basil had become a regular habit. August, in his signature skin-tight t-shirt, slacks and loafers prattled comically in broken Italian about the unwelcome changes to the little village, namely a large American Apparel clothing store and a contemporary tourist bar. Lani rolled her eyes at him and sailed straight ahead, ignoring a few call outs from some local admirers on the corner. They’d spent four months in the historic city of Rome. August had acted out the first week of their stay as their local tour guide, weaving them through heart stopping traffic to tour the Colosseo Foro Romano (Colosseum), Plaza di Spagna (Spanish Steps), Fontana di Trevi (Trevi Fountain), Pantheon, and multitudes of century old churches and other unknown monuments. 

Belle particularly liked Il Vittoriano (The Victor Emmanuel Monument). Like Belle, this building was planted in the heart of this ancient city, but stood distinctly out of place and time against its surroundings. The pure white marble monument imposed its will on Rome below. With the various bronze statues guarding the grand testimonial, it served as true north whenever she lost herself in the alleyways of her new home.

August paid for everything, true to his father’s word. Upon arrival they’d been handed wads of cash and sent to local clothing shops. Whenever they protested August would simply shrug in his deeply Italian way and say, “ _Non vi preoccupate!_ My father wants to do this and he can afford it.” Belle knew that with his longstanding mafia employment he probably _could_ afford it, but it was still unsettling. Only after August found them small jobs at the fashion house where he worked, did the girls begin to feel truly comfortable.

The small posse ate most of their meals in delightful cafés and trattorias like the one they were heading to or often in friends’ homes. In Italy meals went long and were as much an excuse to socialize as to share tastes of your _ricette di famiglia_ , family recipes.  Sometimes August would pick up fresh ingredients at the local outdoor market and cook some form of risotto or pasta at home for them. His apartment was a coveted, roomy three bedroom with a rooftop terrace. Lani and Belle shared one room, August occupied another and the last belonged to August’s ever-absent roommate and best friend who spent more time roaming Europe than staying in one place for very long. The girls had yet to lay eyes on him.

It was a distinctly different atmosphere here than Paris, a different concept of community and time. Cafés on every street corner were populated by Italians blissfully content to while away long hours with friends, whilst watching the world go by. The historic, three level apartment or _alloggio_ was surrounded by neighbors who greeted each other with joyful, exaggerated hand gestures any time of the day or night. After picking up on basic Italian phrases and local customs the girls were finally beginning to feel like locals and spent a good chunk of their own day people watching from street side cafés. 

The trattoria was thick with afternoon crowds. It served as the local alimentary (grocery store), panificio (bakery) and salumi (deli) for its neighborhood. Breads, meats, and cheeses were freshly stockpiled and eagerly snatched away by locals. Belle and Lani noshed on prosciutto and mozzarella on focaccia bread. August chose a calzoni with ricotta, goat cheese, and tomato sauce. The three collected scattered chairs and sat around a black iron table outside. It was a crisp, clear day –a blessed relief from the week of rain. Rome gleamed clean and fresh from its bath under the bright yellow sun.

August plopped a thick white envelope on the table and scooted it toward Belle before taking up another bite of food. The envelope was riddled with Marco’s sharp, slanted script. Occasional letters were Belle’s only link to her beloved former life. This one contained a news clipping of her death announcement. Geppetto had taken Belle’s advice and gone to David with all he knew regarding Killian. Between the two of them, Belle’s death had been successfully staged, Killian’s assets ceased and The Jolly Roger shut down, while the man himself remained at large. Geppetto reassured her that he was on the run and wouldn’t be a threat. His letter was filled with humorous accounts of Madame Potts settling into life in town and reviews on the ballet with Ruby temporarily center stage. Marco’s notes on Gold were pointedly vague. Between the lines Belle read about his grief and unbridled vengeance. She worried for him and bit her lip to stay the tears stinging behind her eyes. She knew she needed to stay away until Killian was apprehended but she hoped with all her soul that Andre would prove himself the changed man she loved so much and choose to leave Jones to the authorities. What would she do if he was apprehended in the act of vengeance she knew he craved? Would Geppetto be enough to stop him? Belle sighed and slipped the letter into her purse.

The strada was filling with neighborhood boys playing _calcio_ , soccer. August and Lani cheered them on. Belle glanced affectionately at her friend. Lani had opened up so much in their short stay. They’d bonded over clothing, literature, and Lani’s secret passion for botany. The two of them made weekly trips to the National Central Library despite August’s repeated protests that libraries were only for serious study. Lani planned on taking classes at the local collegio when the next term started.

After lunch the three of them headed back to work. The world-renowned fashion house, _Maison de Millet_ , was run by the infamous Madame Cora Millet, a French designer who took up residence in Rome and built the empire from the ground up. August was her assistant. Madame Millet was demanding, ruthless and talented. The girls were of little consequence to her and she paid them no more heed than an elephant pays to an ant. To be sure, she gave them a once-over when they first arrived –shooting Belle a second glance after introductions, but after that the work had flooded in whisking Madame away and leaving Belle slave to the whims of fashion.

Today the fashion house was _caotico_ all day. Belle was swamped with messages and never ending calls in preparation for the spring season. August and Madame Cora sent Lani flying back and forth with cinghie (belts), gonne (skirts), and camicette (blouses). Belle crashed early, only to be plagued by fitful dreams of burning houses and long, dark tunnels.

The thump was subtle and if it wasn’t for her restless state Belle would have missed it. The tap-tap of shoes across the tiled floor was unmistakable. Belle lifted August’s prized IBL bat from its honored shelf on the wall and slipped quietly out her door, into the hall. Milky moonlight streamed through the wide open window in the living room, sketching the profile of a medium built man in a hoodie, jeans, and running shoes. Heedless of her frizzy curls and pink silk pajamas, Belle hoisted the bat above her right shoulder. Jaw clenched and arms taut she took a deep breath and met the intruder head on. 

“What are you doing here?”

Startled, the man spun awkwardly around and whipped back the hood from his wide-eyed, incredulous face, revealing a mess of curly black hair, dark eyes and stubbled chin. 

“I _said_ what are you doing here?” Belle lifted the bat a little higher, only slightly aware that Lani had joined her. 

“It’s okay. It’s alright -I’m Lee. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I…I live here.” His voice was thick and husky, his dark eyes soft with understanding even as Belle leveled her bat at his face. He made no move to grab it, but walked slowly toward her with his hands suspended in surrender, his black duffel tossed casually on the floor. 

“Lee!” August side-stepped Belle and clasped the rugged young man in a warm bear hug, patting his back with affectionate gusto and ruffling his cropped black hair. He turned to Belle and Lani and smiled brightly. “Belle, Lani –this is my _migliore amico_ , my best friend Lee.” The girls relaxed, smiled, and shook hands pleasantly. Belle plopped the baseball bat on the couch and shot a sheepish smile at the newcomer.

“Whew! For a minute there I thought I might still get pummeled!” He winked incorrigibly at her and she couldn’t help but laugh.  

“You okay, Belle? He’s alright, I promise.” August left his friend’s side to wrap a reassuring arm around her shoulders.

“Oui, I’m fine. He just startled me.”

August smacked his friend upside the head. 

“Ow! Looks like I’ll get that beating after all,” Lee moaned, rubbing dramatically at the sensitive spot on the back of his skull. 

“Next time call first!” August retorted as he crossed over to the couch. “Nooooo! _Il mio bambino!_ ”

August swept up the collectors bat and cradled it mournfully in his arms. Calling it baby and casting evil eyes around the room on his way to restore the article to its shelf of honor.

There was no sleep after everything that happened. The quartet, most still in pajamas, gathered outside on the patio with fresh brewed café, watching the sun rise as Lee shared about his latest adventures in Prague and Geneva. After a while it was time to get ready for work. The four made plans to meet at Piazza Capranica for dinner and parted ways.

  

Gold had never felt so uncivilized in all his life, balancing in his study on a small trampoline, on one leg, as he tossed a tennis ball back and forth with Victor Whale. Gold’s ankle fusion surgery was nearly 16 weeks ago now. As the young doctor stood before him, Gold was resolute to push through recovery with unprecedented expediency.

“You know boss _,_ you shouldn’t push so hard. Sometimes recovery just needs time.” The ball came toward Gold at a purposefully low angle, causing him to bend and swoop to catch it.

“Victor, I expect to get a full return on my investment in your _pretentious_ medical education, but that does not mean I equate your opinion to the divine.” Gold gave a small wince as he nearly lost his balance. 

Whale gathered his humility, remembering whose presence he was in. “I know and I remember, very well, the contribution you gave and I’m excited to do my part in the organization, but you have to-"

“We did this surgery because it has the best degree of normalcy after healing.” Gold bounced the ball back at his physician.

“In patients under 30 years old! I want you to heal Boss, but it may take some time." 

“ _Doctor_ Whale, I’m glad to hear you want to do your part and I’ll make use of that in some important way, but for right now, that means shutting your mouth and throwing the damn ball.” Gold’s eyes narrowed their focus on the green felted sphere flying through the air, but lost his mind in memory. The past four months had changed him. Since losing Belle, he cared for nothing except revenge; the thoughts consumed him whole.

“Bounjour, Dr. Whale.” Hopper entered the room with a courteous manner, bringing glasses of water for them both. After observing Gold standing precariously on the small trampoline, he turned back to Victor and gave an understanding raise of the eyebrow. The men had privately discussed Gold’s vengeful drive to fix himself and were joined in their efforts to help him heal correctly, meanwhile he was keeping himself hidden from the public. Hopper suspected it was a matter of pride –not wanting to show himself partially healed for fear of remission. He had undergone the surgery secretly and expected his staff to keep it that way.

Hopper had never seen his boss in such a state of physical determination. Up to now, his cane had been a part of him as much as anything. The gold handle and polished black body had always been at his side, but no longer. Hopper knew Whale would easily “convince” him to continue Gold’s therapy into the late evening hours. A regular regiment of ice baths, heating pads, and ointments kept him and Marco running back and forth. It seemed to be working thus far.

Gold still used the cane at home after long days of business or hunting for Killian, but in public he walked around confidently – even tackling stairs and hills. But while his body strengthened, he took no joy in it and Hopper worried that Gold would never be satisfied again. With Belle, the beast stood a chance at life, but without her he was sure to be lost in his own darkness. Hopper understood well, he missed Belle too. It was nice to have another ally who could soften the master’s blow from time to time.

Hopper wasn’t a man like Gold, but he did feel indignation at what Killian had done and took great, albeit guilty, joy in the thought of administering justice. They had learned that Jones had most likely fled the country; especially after le Inspecteur General froze Killian’s various local business ventures. For the time being, they were waiting for any clue or direction to track down as Gold continued his physical training and rehabilitation. 

 _Thump!_ A stray tennis ball hit him over the head and knocked Hopper back to the present reality. “Dr. Whale is leaving now. See him out Hopper.” Gold was engaged in some stretches at his desk as Dr. Whale gathered his belongings. As the two men left Gold behind in the study they overheard the beginning of a phone call.

“Hello George. We need to talk.”

It was a tense ride to the intended appointment. Though he was previously aware that Gold had some sort of connection to the Prime Minister, this was Hopper’s first time meeting George Rieu. It was a kingly manor. L’Hôtel Matignon stood clean and white against the bright green grass of summer. As Rieu entered the opulent foyer to greet them, a petite woman followed closely behind. “Andre, Bonjour. Ça va? You look good.” George was a determined man who carried himself well and completely disregarded Hopper’s presence. The handshake between the two power players was forceful and prolonged. 

“I’m fine George. Just fine, but we need to talk about a personal matter.”

“Perhaps it is best if it is private then. Miss Bleu, would you kindly keep – I’m sorry, what’s your name?" 

“Archambault Hopper, sir”

“Yes. Kindly keep Monsieur Hopper company while we speak privately. We’ll be in the billiard room.” Gold gave Hopper a slight nod of agreement.

“Oui Monsieur.” Mademoiselle Bleu was a petite and formal person, ushering Hopper into a nearby office. “Nice to meet you Monsieur Hopper, I am Fay Bleu, Monsieur Rieu’s personal assistant. Would you care for anything?”

Gold and George began their hushed conversation at the other end of the hall, when Hopper could only make out the muffled sounds. They turned into one of the many rooms and closed the door.

“So what can I do for you, Andre?” George had dealt with Gold long enough and knew that he only came to him if his resources were already exhausted.

Not being one to mince words, Gold got straight to the point, “I need some leniency and a direction regarding Killian Jones.” Just thinking about the scoundrel made Gold’s blood course through the veins in his neck.

“Killian Jones… the name sounds familiar. I believe my son is working on a case against him. He’s been a smuggler and an enforcer. David tells me he recently graduated to murder though.” George let the words hang a minute and simply observed his old acquaintance.

“What can you tell me, George?” The tightness in Gold’s ankle drove him to be less than cordial in his demeanor as he absorbed the pain. 

“I can tell you that if you get your hands dirty here, I can’t protect you anymore. David’s made it a federal case and word is he’s out of the country.”

Gold dismissed the warning with a flick of the hand and a slightly annoyed grunt. “We know he’s left, George, but where?”

“Andre, we’ve done business for a long time, but why should I involve myself here?”

“Oh I don’t know. You have campaigns and there’s always a need for money, but I’ll do you one better.” Gold stepped closer to George, ensuring that his seriousness was conveyed. “I’m sure you would hate for the public to find out who your _real_ son is; to find out who David really is and what happened years ago.” This was always Gold’s bargaining chip, since he was directly involved in the cover-up process.

“You know, someday you won’t be able to use that anymore. Then what will you do?” The Prime Minister gave a tolerant grunt.

“Well that day has yet to come, so for now, let’s stop dancing about and get down to it.” Gold was eager to move on, away from the red-tapped example of bureaucratic hypocrisy before him.

A brief staring match delayed the answer, but as always, Gold’s plan eventually won out. “David said that he believes Jones to be in Italy. He’s bounced around a bit, but he’s tracked him to Venice.” Satisfied with this new information Gold turned to leave, but froze when he heard George call out after him. “He’s there with Regina and her mother. Certainly you remember Cora, don’t you?”

Though he would randomly find himself remembering her, he hadn’t heard the name in years. Of course he remembered her. They were dance partners for years, up until he was hurt. She was the prima to his cavalier. She helped his career get started, but then again she was the reason it stopped too. Turning back slightly to acknowledge him, Gold forced out the words, “Merci, George. I can handle it from here and I’ll see myself out.”

As he opened the door to the hallway, he nearly collided with a broad shouldered man in a leather jacket. Standing his ground as the authority in the room, Gold didn’t budge, but instead squared off with the younger man before him. “Inspecteur David, it’s nice to see you again. Any luck catching the man who _murdered_ my fiancé?”

Caught off guard at first, David quickly regained his composure. “Uh, no. Nothing yet, but we hope to catch him soon.”

“Well, you’d better hope you catch him before I do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some _business_ to attend to. Au-revoir.”

At the sound of his voice, Hopper had immerged from the office with Mademoiselle Bleu. The two assistants observed the encounter from afar. Hopper led the way as Gold exited the foyer and strode across the grand driveway. “Any luck Monsieur?” 

“Oui.”

 

Belle had always been particularly fascinated with the sheer vastness of mopeds in Rome. As much as they weaved through traffic and seemed to obey their own laws, she never witnessed an accident. Their cunning maneuvers and daring speeds left her in awe – not quite ready to board one herself. Being that the majority of Rome’s sites were within a few square miles, Lani and Belle happily walked wherever they chose to go. When Lee held out the black helmet temptingly, complete with puppy-dog eyes and a curled lower lip, Belle threw caution to the wind and accepted. The four of them sped away through the congested city streets and out into the lush hills of Italy’s beautiful countryside. Armed with lunch, the four friends sought out the emerald hills of Tuscania. The picturesque medieval town was hemmed in by glorious vividly painted meadows only a half-hour’s ride from Rome.

“Impossibile!” Lee feigned colourful shock and crumpled into the grass as Belle completed reading the last chapter of Wilkie Collins’  _The Moonstone_. Content with the affect the book’s ending had on her captivated audience of one, she snatched up an apple and happily munched away while she left him to ponder. Many chummy afternoons had been whiled away in this manner, August and Lani debating Italian football or listening in while Lee and Belle read their favorite books aloud. Belle was surprised to find that Lee was familiar with many of the works she’d last pilfered from Gold’s collection. His suggestions were always excellent, based on preferences she remarked on. These conversations always reminded her of the long hours in Andre’s study. Sometimes when she closed her eyes as he read she imagined similar inflections in their voices, making her desperately homesick despite her wonderful comrades.

“Belle? Are you here?” Lee waved a teasing hand in front of her face.

“Oh, oui! Sorry.”

“Good, because I thought I was going to have to hit you upside the head with a bat for a moment.”

“Just get your own this time, Bailey!” August cried out in defense of his precious collector’s item.


	18. Carnevale

“Don’t fall in.” Bailey teased as he gripped Belle’s gloved elbow and assisted her out of the gondola. The unmistakable face of _Palazzo Ducale_ , stood elegant and austere in the bright moonlight, its stone laced gothic architecture a pure, unmistakable symbol of the heart of Venice’s culture.

Behind them the canals were emptying dozens of gloriously garbed passengers onto the deck beside her: kings, queens, angels, devils and everything in-between. Beside her, Bailey’s court jester costume was a glorious patchwork of colorful velvet diamonds and Belgian lace fringe. Lani dazzled in vivid red and black. Yards of organza and plumes flowed from her crystal beaded bodice. Her hand painted oriental mask peaked out from a dramatic orchid, feather, and tulle headpiece. Concealed beneath a billowing black taffeta cloak, Belle’s own gown was an off-shoulder Marie Antoinette. The boned bodice and skirt were champagne dupioni silk with gold brocade that fell in luscious folds to the beaded swirl hemline. The hanging sleeves were Alençon lace with scalloped trim.

Belle stole a last glance at the moonlit canal then turned to notice Bailey and Lani a few paces in front of her. Scooping up an armful of satin and tulle she skipped to catch up with them, bumping clumsily into a gentleman along the way. He was one of a group of four gold and black costumed phantoms.

“Excusez-moi,” she blurted behind her feather fringed mask.

 

It was odd to hear French in Venice, but this ball attracted people from all over the world. Gold quickly recounted his reasons for not attending social functions of this stamina. The chaos which consumed the event often led to bumps and shakes similar to the one he’s just encountered from some gaudy, feather-laced young woman who was obviously over eager to attend what was likely her first masquerade. In his younger years he occasionally enjoyed the game that was masquerade, but as time moved on so did his patience. The only reason he attended tonight was to follow a tip promising that Killian Jones would be in attendance.

From behind his own mask he stared down the young woman who bumped him, with pitch-black holes in a porcelain white and gold face. A polite nod sent her scurrying past them.

 

The radiant carved gilt ceiling of the Palazzo Ducale, glowed bright and reflected the hued lights, illuminating the festivities below while frescoes painted by 15th and 16th century masters lent their romantic elegance. The details and opulence of the famed hall took Belle’s breath away.

Midas Nicolao traditionally hosted the exclusive masquerade extravaganza. The world renowned fashion and costume designer was a close acquaintance and business partner of Madame Millet, so naturally August was required to attend. He scrounged up three more tickets and put his friends up at the infamous Hotel Danieli. Belle spotted his rogue 17th century figure at the entrance, chatting amiably with guests and business partners on behalf of Maison de Millet.

“Simplemente magnifico!” he cried delightedly when he finally clapped eyes on his friends. He spun Lani around, remarking on her glorious ensemble. Belle shrugged off her black cloak and handed it to the attendant.

“Signorina, may I have the honor?” Bailey smirked playfully with an over-exaggerated bow. When she took his hand with a tolerant roll of her eyes, he danced a little jig that made the bells on his jester’s hat ring out.

Hundreds of masked ladies and gentlemen in colorful costumes flocked around white linen tables along the edges of the room sipping champagne while others spun in the center of the parquet floor to Strauss’ Blue Danube waltz. Bailey smiled brightly and led her directly into the whirl of color. With a nod of his chin and a wink of his eye they began to move. His mannerisms frequently plucked at Belle’s heart. No one who met Bailey could deny his father’s heavy mark on the young man. It hadn’t taken Belle long to piece together the family ties. Bright and stubbornly optimistic, she could see the cavalier Gold in his son’s free flying lifestyle.

She’d once approached Bailey with everything. His response was a deep seeded French shrug as he tossed down the rest of his wine…

_“It’s a pity, mon ami,” he’d replied sadly, running his fingers through his thick head of curls, “I wish you had fallen in love with a better man.”_

_“There is no better man, Lee,” she’d responded flatly._

_“Ah. You’re right, but there is a better life. I’m afraid with my father you will only experience death.”_

_“Do you love him, Lee?”_

_Lee had looked up with genuine surprise, “It doesn’t matter whether I love him. He made a choice long ago that the family business is what he cared about. Everything revolved around the business and I didn’t want any part of it. The question now is do_ you _love him?_

_“Yes.” She’d choked on the heart-breaking truth, “but I don’t think he knows that you love him. He misses you terribly.” Bailey had gazed unseeingly at the table between them, ignoring her assumption of love._

_“He is the most talented man I have ever known and he was a wonderful father for a time when I was younger, but nothing can survive in his world. It is a world that collects souls and once you are caged you are never free again. Nothing can live in a world like that._ _Est-ce que tu me comprends_ _, do you understand, Belle?”_

_“Oui.” She never brought it up to him again. Observing that, like his father, he needed space and time to reflect, she’d expertly bit her tongue._

“I like that one!” Lee said with a discreet point and nod. Belle spun around, to notice the glittery red and white ensemble and promptly giggled.

“ _That_ , is Madame Millet.” She looked on with amusement as Bailey’s face fell flat.

“Why on earth would that woman dress like the queen of hearts when she so clearly doesn’t have one of her own?”

“Now, Bailey, just because _you_ quit working for Maison de Millet, doesn’t mean the rest of us have that luxury.” Lee gave a pouty huff, unsatisfied that his selection turned out to be his old boss, and searched the room for other notable costumes.

Bailey kept in step with the great carousel of color as he noted the corner group with a haphazard glance. “What’s with the crowd of phantoms? Must have been a good deal…” When the music ended they retired to the window where August and Lani stood sipping champagne and prattling on about August’s responsibilities for the evening.

Killian Jones swept unheeded through the arched entrance. His deep red chesterfield coat looked near black in the dim lights as it floated behind him.  A frilly white cravat peaked out of his double-breasted black leather vest. And in typical pirate fashion, black knee breeches were tucked squarely into a pair of gold-buckled, large-cuffed leather boots. His feather-trimmed black tricorn and cape sat atop his ensemble with a traditional white bauta mask.

On his arm, Regina Prevot scintillated in a shimmering pearl and rhinestone beaded white taffeta gown with a sweeping ruffled train. Her dark tresses were neatly tucked away beneath an elaborate white wig. The angel and the pirate made their way purposefully toward a corner where the queen of hearts was engaged in pleasant conversation with the infamous mask craftsman, Mario Belloni. When the gentleman had walked away the angel greeted the queen with two light kisses on each cheek.

Gushing praise over her daughter, “My darling, you look beautiful.” She held up her arms to get a full glimpse of the ironically pure costume Regina donned. “Killian.” Madame Millet fulfilled her aristocratic duty with a cold acknowledgment of the black clad pirate standing next to her pride and joy. “I haven’t seen Gold yet, darling. He may already be here. Rumor has it, he’s bringing back-up.”

“The more the merrier,” Killian replied with a bemused chuckle. His stare bounced from woman to woman as each costume captivated his curiosity.

“You need to stay focused, my dear, and make sure to _finish_ the job this time.” Regina flicked a stray feather from the lace of her bodice and turned her head casually to survey the room, purposefully missing the fierce glare he shot at her.

“Children,” Cora chastised. “Don’t quarrel. And Killian, for God’s sake don’t let anyone recognize you. I’ll let you both know when I’ve spotted Gold. It shouldn’t be hard, just look for his cane.” With that, the queen of hearts swept up the hem of her wide, blood red skirt and sailed into the soiree.

Gold searched the throng with intense resolve. Next to him Jefferson, Hopper, and Whale chatted quietly in identical disguises. A masquerade was the damnedest place to sift out a murderer. Knowing that Killian may want vengeance himself, Gold ordered his men into the same costume, in an effort to help his anonymity. Convincing Jefferson to ditch the overtly flamboyant costume he’d originally purchased wasn’t easy, but eventually Gold had won out.

Surveying the crowd, he thought he’d spotted the murderous fiend once or twice, but was much disappointed. Shooting the wrong man was not an option – He had to be sure before he struck. Turning his back on the dance floor, he barked out precise directions to his men. The phantoms fanned out slowly, combing the crowds in different directions, observing everyone around them.

In the midst of his _revange_ that bungling feathered girl kept popping up in his view. Her French was tormentingly familiar, but he’d long dismissed the possibility of Belle’s survival. Instead, her utterances plagued every hour of sleep and often crept into the voices of various mademoiselles in Paris. She haunted him at every turn, in every blue eyed face he happened across. Still, this girl was… more vivid than the rest. He took a moment to observe her movements on the floor; she was impressively graceful.

With a deep grunt, Gold pulled himself away from the eerie resemblance to continue his hunt. He saw his team of phantoms weaving the room’s perimeter searching for clues as to Jones’ presence. As the music ended, Gold took the opportunity to cut across the dance floor toward the designated meeting-place of his posse. He saw his feathered temptress follow him with her eyes, but determined to ignore her as much as he could. When he arrived at the buffet, Hopper and Dr. Whale were waiting for him, plates in hand.

“No luck on our end Monsieur. We’re not even sure he made it at this point.”

“Oui, maybe he didn’t show.”

“Non!” Gold would not accept the possibility of Jones’ absence. Tonight was going to be the culmination of all his planning and work. Jones _had_ to be here. They’d walked around and through the room already, but maybe a new perspective was needed. “Perhaps there is some other way to scour the room” Gold thought aloud.

“You know boss, the people facing the dance floor are difficult to see since their backs are turned to the crowds. Maybe Jefferson could dance out there and get a better look.”

Without a word, Gold walked away toward the dance floor. He knew both men well enough to understand that either of _them_ dancing would only be an embarrassing waste of time and Jefferson still had not shown up yet.

“Are we supposed to follow him or wait here?” Whale looked on in confusion.

“Let’s wait here. He’ll know where to look if he needs us and we can see almost the entire room from here.” The two men returned to the buffet line to restock on supplies.

A loudly colored Jester had filed in behind them and tapped Jefferson on the shoulder. “I love your costumes, but I have to ask… Why are there four of you guys in the same get-up? Was it just a buy-one-get-one-free kinda thing?”

“Something like that.” Hopper chuckled gently as he turned away from the joker behind him.

Realizing how ridiculous the men may look all dressed the same; he decided to return his gaze to the throngs of masked partiers as he navigated the platters and tables ahead of him. He noticed Monsieur Gold leading a woman to the dance floor.

“Now I understand” he said pointing out his observation to Whale.

“I told him he shouldn’t be dancing tonight!” Whale exclaimed in frustration. “If he wants to heal, he can’t keep ignoring me Hopper!”

The sound of Hopper’s name caught Bailey’s ear, turning his attention from the elaborate spread to the two phantoms ahead of him.

“You’ve known Monsieur Gold for years now, Whale! What the boss wants, he gets.”

Bailey nearly dropped his plate, hearing the two men speak about his father. _Was he here? How the hell did he find him? Was he here for Belle?_

“He seems to be holding his own so far. He’s leading that feathered woman in the champagne dress pretty well.”

Bailey ditched his food in exchange for finding his friends. Lani and Belle were both dancing, but thankfully he found August on the edge of the floor observing.  Removing his mask, he reported to August the new information he’d just overheard and the two men watched as Belle unassumingly danced on.

Belle had lost count of her partners and she thanked God for her foresight in rejecting the stiff period shoes in favor of soft satin slippers. She was longing for a much needed rest when she found herself nearly bumping into him again. Looming over her in gold and black, the gentleman she’d collided with on the way in stood resolute. As the orchestra swelled into Johanne Strauss’ _Emperor Waltz_ she knew he was speaking to her but she couldn’t hear a word. Feeling obligated, for running into him earlier in the evening, she accepted his outstretched hand and let him lead her to the dance floor.

The phantom spanned his long gloved fingers across the small of her back, pressing her close to his soft woolen _tabarro_. Their hands entwined as their movements began. They didn’t speak, but began to whirl gracefully across the floor. Belle soon found herself unconsciously relaxing into the expert guidance of the masked stranger. Twirling and gliding with comfortable ease, the two soon gained recognition from the surrounding crowds. Belle glanced out over his shoulder and noted Bailey had removed his mask and now stood pale and unreadable at August’s side. The two of them deep in conversation, neither averted their eyes from her. Across the room, the group of black and white phantoms began to assemble in a stoic half circle, observing the pair orbit the floor. Belle lifted her gaze to the stranger but his hollowed eyes were the same abyss of black. She could tell that he wasn’t really looking at her –his chin was high and his mask averted as though he was searching the room for someone or something.

Hopper’s steady watch was aroused by something in the corner of the room. A woman in a blindingly white dress was waving her arms frantically about as if to get someone’s attention. Following her gaze, he attempted to solve the mystery, but to no avail. Returning to the spasmodic woman, he noticed she was now pointing in his direction.

Looking again along the path of her affection, he now noticed a man in black pirate garb responding subtly to her gestures. Nudging Whale gently, the two men began to descend on the dancers and make their way to the edge of the floor. Across from them Whale noticed the Jester and another man talking. Hopper’s steady stare locked with the pirate’s as the distance between them closed.

Every damned man under fifty was a possible suspect. Gold grew frustrated in his search and soon found himself increasingly lost in the whirl and sway of the moment. She was looking at him and he knew he should say something but nothing came to mind so he pretended not to notice as he released her in an under arm spin. As they dipped and turned something on her left hand caught the light in his eye. Gold froze, his left hand still gripping her own in the air, his right arm tightening slowly around her small waist.

“What are you doing?” Belle struggled against his tight embrace as they stood still in the center of the spiraling throng.

Without a word Gold ripped the gold mask from Belle’s face. Releasing her instantly, his arms dropped to his sides and he stepped back trembling from head to toe. Beautiful and alive she stood before him, a deep pink blush from their exertion staining her pale cheeks. Without a word he reached for her, but she evaded his touch, her eyes full of intense confusion. Before he could speak, the familiar face of his own son, albeit older and more mature, was standing protectively at her side, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Dumbfounded and elated tears fell from his dark eyes as he tore off his own golden mask.

A sudden movement arrested Belle’s attention. Without warning, she watched one of the phantoms sprint across the dance floor, knocking couples out of his way. The piercing sound of a gunshot ricocheted off the gold gilt walls as the phantom leapt in front of herself and Andre, landing in a heap at their feet. A chrome-handled gun slid out of the stranger’s relaxed hand. With one fell swoop, Bailey snatched up the pistol and unloaded two rounds to her left. Belle watched in horror as a masked pirate collapsed beneath the stampeding crowds.

Bending down to check on their fallen hero, Belle removed his mask. The sight of Hopper’s agonizing face brought a gush of tears to her eyes. Collapsing next to him, pooling blood seeped through her wide silk skirt as she gathered his head in her arms.

Two more phantoms had appeared at their side, one of them attended to Hopper while the second one attempted to pull her away from the scene. Peering through the whirlwind of people, Belle saw Bailey walk up to the crumpled pirate, gun drawn at the ready. After a couple of kicks and nudges at the bloody body, he returned to the group on the dance floor.

 “We need to go now.”


	19. Père et Fils

Gold slammed open the door while Bailey and Jefferson hoisted Hopper cautiously onto the hotel bed. “His blood pressure’s dropping.”  Whale tore at the remainder of Hopper’s shirt, hastily cleansing the wound with the whisky soaked handkerchief Gold handed him. “The bullet came close, but didn’t hit any arteries. We’re damn lucky! Jefferson, get over here and give me a hand and the rest of you get the hell out.” Whale didn’t bother looking up. His hands and arms were drenched in Hopper’s blood, his brow furrowed as he clutched his forceps and steadily bent to remove the embedded bullet.

Bailey stepped over to the end of the bed where Belle stood pale and shaky still spattered with blood. Gently gripping Belle’s shoulders, he led her from the bedroom. While his hands were steady, the shallow breaths jumping across her neck betrayed his skittish nerves.

“Are you okay?” He turned Belle slowly to face him once they’d reached the sitting room and she nodded silently without looking up. Hopper’s grunts and screams followed them out; a mixture of commands and yelling between Whale and Jefferson became muffled as Gold slammed the door behind them. 

“You two _know_ each other! How? How the hell do you know each other?” Every vein in his neck strained for release while his words spat between tightly clamped teeth.

Bailey pivoted around, positioning himself between his father and Belle, his hand outstretched. Gold glanced briefly at his boy and then directly at Belle, his face a broken mixture of fury and heartbreak.

“How are you _alive_?”

The silent response from the co-conspirators only served to stir the frustration within. “Answer me!” He was trembling from head to toe, a thin veil of perspiration beading on his furrowed brow.

As Belle began to muster a response, Bailey quickly interjected. “You don’t have to answer that, Belle. You don’t have to tell him anything.”

“Yes, she does!” Gold barked with a blend of disgust and disbelief toward his son. “I thought you were _dead_ , Belle! I buried your remains.”

“It was the only way she could be safe – to get as far away from _you_ as possible.” For just an instant Gold paled from the verbal slap. Bailey looked on and steadied himself for a long overdue confrontation. “She was safe because _we_ kept her that way.” Bailey motioned around to his absent companions. “August and I kept her safe. Even Lani kept her safe. Not you!”

“Oh and I suppose you call tonight safe?!” Gold retorted with a slight cock of his head and a triumphant smirk.

“No, not at all.” Bailey replied tursly. His fists knotting stiffly at his side. “But look who showed up, right before people started getting _shot_!”

“If I recall correctly, _you_ are the only one who has killed anyone tonight.”

“Again, to protect her from whatever it is _you’re_ caught up in.” The duel moved quickly as the two men verbally thrust and parried with each other.

“I came here tonight because of her death. That man _killed_ her and I came to avenge that death! Turns out I’ve been played for the fool the past 5 months!”

“You’ve been played for a fool your whole life! This is just another chapter.”

“You watch your mouth, _boy_.” But Bailey stood unwavering in the midst of his father’s empty threat.

“Think about it. You have more power than anyone else I know, and yet you still have nothing.”

The strangely transparent sentiment caused Gold to step back a moment. He’d heard similar observations from his mother before she passed. 

“Nothing…” Bailey reemphasized the void in his father’s life.

A softer look came across Gold’s face. “I had _everything_ when I had you at home, Son.” His eyes gathered pools as he attempted to suck them back.

“No… You didn’t. Even when I was home, I spent more time with Marco and August than I did with you. Why do you think I’m _here_?”

Gold was lost for a response and merely looked on at his son, hoping for an explanation. 

“August and I grew up together and _his_ dad looked after us. Everything around you ends in some form of premature death and I wasn’t about to let that happen to me. So I went to the only family I knew.”

The realization of Marco’s involvement sparked a new fire within Gold. _How had he kept these secrets from him? How could he betray him like this?_ “That son-of-a-“ 

“No!” Bailey stopped him short. “Marco is the reason I’m here today. He’s also the reason Belle is alive. Without him, we’d both be dead.” Bailey turned to look at Belle in agreement, only to find an empty room. Neither man had noticed when the room emptied, but she was nowhere in sight.

Turning back to Gold, “As far as _you’re_ concerned, we _are_ both dead.”  With that Bailey began to walk out. Gold started to follow, but Dr. Whale called him back. “Monsieur Gold! We need you!”

Bailey didn’t have to look long for Belle. Glancing down the dimly lit hallway, he saw her silhouette on the soft moonlit terrace.

“Hi. You never answered my question.”

Belle sighed and leaned precariously over the balcony. Out here, the soft rhythm of canal water and the rising nighttime breeze soothed her frayed nerves. “I’m fine.”

Bailey rested both his elbows on the iron railing beside her and combed his fingertips through the thick dark curls across his skull. “August and Lani dropped off our things. They’re heading back to Rome.”

Belle watched a water taxi float out from the dock and didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry we argued in front of you.” Belle lifted both palms to her eyes and pressed steadily against the throbbing culprits, willing every tear to remain unshed. Lee turned her into his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “You don’t have to go back with him. You have us now, a new life –a new home.” He brushed the hair back from her forehead and cupped her face in his hands, turning her face up to his. “It’s not your fault, Belle. None of this is your fault.” At that, Belle let out a tight sob and buried her tears in his shoulder. He soothed her back awkwardly and inwardly cursed the dead pirate who’d stirred up so much trouble. After a while the tears stopped coming and she stood up straight, bowed head concealing large red rimmed eyes and swollen nose.

Bailey glanced down at her bloodied gown. “You should get changed. The cafés will be open soon, or at least the hotel kitchen. I’ll rumage up some early breakfast while you freshen up. Then we’ll both go see how Hopper’s doing, hm?”

Belle nodded briefly and let Lee guide her gently back down the dimly lit hall to the suite. The sitting room was empty. Belle saw lights and plenty of movement coming from the master bedroom where Hopper was resting. Once inside her own room she released a shaky sigh and followed her feet to the adjoining bathroom. She discarded the soiled dress in the center of the marble floor and sank beneath the deep warm bathwater she’d drawn until she’d muted the world. 

_La vie est pourrie!_ Belle groaned as she resurfaced. Life was frustrating at every turn. Her heart ached for Hopper. She wished there was more she could do for him, but if he was with Andre’s physician –well, then he was in the best hands, she was certain.

Gold and Lee’s hateful words reverberated in her ears. She would give anything to help the père et fils see eye to eye. Her mind recalled pride and unforgiveness in both their faces. The father had practically lunged at his son. Lunged! Belle thought about Gold’s injury –he’d moved without a trace of pain. Her mind unbidden retraced the dance steps in the arms of the gentle phantom. How right it had felt, dancing with him. She should have known! She should have recognized him. How had he healed? An operation? It must have taken months –months she had been gone from him. She should have been there to help him, to encourage him. It all made sense –Killian’s reappearance coupled with Gold’s attendance at the ball. Andre must have tracked him there. So, David never found him. Belle thought about Regina –had she been there too? Now that Killian was dead would Regina quit coming after her?

All of these questions made her head ache, so she rose from the bath, dried off and slipped into her white cotton dress, the same dress she’d worn on the beach with Andre, she mused sadly. Dawn was barely breaking through the window across from her. Outside, early risers would be hitting the markets and readying for work. A few days ago she would have been among them. How different life seemed now.

Belle silently opened her door and tripped into the lap of Andre Gold. His outstretched legs brazenly blocking her doorway while his torso reclined heavily against the armchair that had been dragged across the room. His arms caught her firmly around her waist, guiding her carefully onto his lap. “Belle,” he whispered into the dark folds of her hair while his right hand pulled her head against his chest. His embrace was insistent but she didn’t have the strength to fight him –she didn’t have the will, so she relaxed momentarily into his warmth and familiar curves, her head finding its home in the crook of his neck where musk and cedar drowned her senses. “Why did you leave me, Belle? Why did you go? Did you think I couldn’t protect you? That I wouldn’t?” His words trailed the curve of her smooth forehead, his lips pausing at her temple to brush a light kiss there. Belle moved to sit up and he released her, his arms hanging midair as she rose from his lap and crossed to the window. After a moment she felt his breath at her ear.

“He wouldn’t stop. When he tied us up…when he...set the house on fire…I knew he would never stop until I was dead.”

His voice was rough and low beside her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Belle let out a half sigh before she answered. “I didn’t want you to kill him.” She turned to face him, her fingers knotted in little balls at her sides, her clear blue eyes honest and defiant as she peered into his own. “I knew Inspecteur Rieu was trailing him. It was his suggestion that I disappear until the matter was resolved. When everything happened with the fire…Marco and I both agreed it was for the best.”

“But it wasn’t for the best, Belle! Don’t you see?”

The main suite door opened and Bailey stepped in with two white paper bags and a box of coffees. “Am I missing something?” His eyes darted between the two suspiciously before resting finally on Belle. She smiled thinly at him and moved to grab the box of coffees from his outstretched arm while he shut the door. 

Dr. Whale emerged from the master bedroom with Jefferson standing behind him. Both their hands were cleaned up, but the stains on their shirts preached a vivid reminder of the struggle behind that door. Smiles on the faces of both men eased the anxious feelings around the room.

A sudden and forceful knock at the door startled everyone from their relief as a collective thought gripped their minds: _Who in the world is that?_

The occupants froze for a moment before the knock grew louder.

“It’s probably August and Lani forgetting something.” Bailey set down the espressos quickened to the door. Opening it confidently, he was surprised at the visitor.

“You must be Bailey. My name is Inspecteur David Rieu from Paris. May I come in?”

Positioning himself to block the entrance, Lee began to object. “We’re a bit busy right–”

“Yes, Inspecteur, please come in.” Gold’s voice elevated above the scrambling crowd, as he walked to the door. Bailey reluctantly stood aside and eyed the federal agent invading the suite.

“Merci, Monsieur Gold. I got here as fast as I could. My father called me a few hours ago and told me you two had spoken.”  
  
“Oui. That is correct.”

“So Killian is dead, but shot someone in your party? Is that it? How is your man?”

“Oui. Correct again, but I do believe you just interrupted the testimony regarding his condition.” Turning to Dr. Whale, everyone looked on in expectation.

Stammering in the presence of the Inspecteur, Whale proceeded with his report. “Hopper’s been stabilized. Killian shot his abdomen, but missed any arteries. Jefferson and I were able to remove the bullet, stop the bleeding, and close him up. He’s going to be in pain for a while, but should make a full recovery. He’ll just need to take it easy for a couple of weeks to regain his strength and not pop the sutures.”

The news was met with sighs of relief from everyone, accompanied with some awkward hugs and handshakes.

“Well I’m glad to hear that.” David was the first to speak, “We tracked Killian and Prevot to Venice, but didn’t have enough leads to make a move yet. I’m sorry it had to come to this and I don’t mean to take away from the moment, but I do have some bad news.”

The room grew silent as David’s statement caught everyone’s attention.

“As much as I believe Jones got what was coming to him, technically he was murdered and I can’t ignore that; especially when it’s all French citizens involved on foreign grounds.” Turning around to speak to Bailey, “I’m afraid I have to take you in for questioning Monsieur Rochon.”

“But it was self-defense!” Belle leaped to Lee’s side.

“It may have been, but that has to be determined back in Paris.”

Bailey’s eyes glared intently at his father with a knowing and haunting sense of the familiar. “You did this, didn’t you?” He turned and faced his father head-on. “You called him to come arrest me?!” Bailey began to charge toward Gold across the room.

“Hey!” David jumped to intercept Lee’s advance, extending his arms to hold Bailey at bay.

“You manipulative fu–!”

“Bailey!” David had managed to capture his attention. “Your father’s call was the best decision for everyone involved. This will go a lot more smoothly if you come willingly.”

Lee stopped his attack and paced in front of the Inspecteur. “Fine” he produced his arms as David quickly cuffed them together.

“Monsieur Gold, you, Belle, and the rest of your party aren’t under arrest, but you will be wanted for questioning as well, so I suggest you all make your way back to Paris.”

Gold directed Belle to gather her things from the room while he and Jefferson rounded up Lee’s bags along with their own. After leaving some instructions for Whale; Gold, Belle, and Jefferson followed Inspecteur Rieu and Bailey to the lobby where Gold settled everything with the hotel manager for the remainder of Whale and Hopper’s stay until the latter was fit for travel. Once he’d finished, the five of them climbed into the waiting taxi and sped down the canal toward the airport and home. 


	20. Belle et la Bête

Geppetto recoiled with a horrific thud against the shiny, black limo. He gripped the car door for balance while pressing a shaky right palm to the base of his nose. When he found blood there, he quickly replaced it with a clean, white hankerchief from his vest pocket.

“ _Qu’avez-vous fait?_ What do you think you’re doing?” Belle turned on Gold and jabbed both her small white fists into the center of his chest.

“Belle, he _lied_ to me! _Lied_ to me!” Gold’s face was anything but repentant, both his hands gesturing accusingly toward the object of his fury with childish dramatic emphasis. 

“I don’t care! _I_ lied to you! Are you going to hit me too? _Êstes-vous?_ ”

Gold fisted his hair with an aggravated roll of his eyes. “Belle, he lied to me about _you_! He lied to me about _Bay_! He has it coming.” Gold took another step forward but Belle’s slight, stubborn frame was planted firmly in front of him. He could lift her and probably toss her out of the way if he wanted to, but instead he simply uttered an exasperated sigh that was almost a growl and sulked the entire drive home like a petulant child.  

Across the airfield, the inspecteur générale was escorting Bailey to his police car. Apparently David trusted Lee enough to remove his handcuffs for the journey to le bureau de l’inspecteur générale. Lee shot the inspecteur a questioning look and then stooped into the passenger seat.

“Look, I know what happened, but I still need to go through the formalities.” David clapped Bailey on the shoulder reassuringly and shut the car door. While the inspecteur slid behind the wheel and started the engine Lee watched his father’s limo become a receding spot in the distance.

“Are they finished coming after her?” Lee’s voice was low and hesitant.

David took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I hope so. I really do.”

 

Upon arriving at home, a frustrated Gold stormed off after having relinquished control of his own staff. At least in his study he still retained a semblance of power. Slamming the door shut, he sat down at his desk and quickly picked up the phone and dialed.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle Bleu, let me speak to your boss… No! You can’t know what it’s regarding you daft fairy! Now put him on the phone!”

“George. It would seem that our sons are spending an abnormal amount ‘playtime’ together lately… Any idea how long they’ll be?” Gold began to calm at the sound assurances from his old partner and a more serious tone overtook his voice.

“Glad to hear it George. I do have one other piece of information you should probably know about. I’m calling a meeting of the heads… Just a friendly meeting to chat about recent and future events, nothing you need worry yourself about… Now George you know I can’t tell you that… I know George… Consider yourself covered… Oui, I’ll let you know when the time is right, until then I would appreciate it if you kept the hounds away… Thanks so much, Dearie.”

After hanging up with the Prime Minister, Gold grabbed a small nondescript black book from among the ornate bindings lining his bookshelf. Turning back to the phone, he thumbed through the book until he found the elusive and secretive page. As the phone rang in his hear, he cleared his voice and prepared to speak in a hushed tone.

Three quick calls is all it took and the meeting was set for tonight. It would be unusual to attend a meeting without Hopper, though everyone would understand why. Still, it would be smart to have someone else present, besides, he couldn’t drive himself.

Gold made one final call. “Jefferson! I need you tonight… The ballet’s not expecting you back until tomorrow, so it’s be fine. Be here by 9pm. You’re driving tonight… Good boy.”

 

“Are you alright, Dear?” Madame Potts set a steaming cup of tea and a plate of pastel colored _macarons_ on the cast iron table beside Belle’s book.

“Merci, Madame Potts,” Belle smiled warmly at the endearing older woman. “I’m good. Just catching up on a little reading.”

“A little reading? Bah! That book has more pages than la bible,” the little gray haired woman chortled with a mock poke at the fat volume of _the Brothers Karamazov_.  She leaned over and slanted her eyes with an appraising glance at Belle’s face. “I don’t think you are.”

Madame Potts crossed her pudgy arms across her thick bosom and waited patiently for Belle to respond.

“I’m just confused,” Belle leaned back in the outdoor chair and glanced absently up through the tree branches at the murky sky overhead. “I haven’t decided what to do yet.”

“About Monsieur Gold or about le ballet?”

“Both, I guess.” Belle eventually lowered her eyes to the round face in front of her, a face lined by years of difficult decisions, hard earned wisdom, and plenty of joy mixed in; one that was now so tenderly gazing on her with sympathy and kindness.

“Ma mere use to say, ‘Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow. It empties today of its strength.’ So do not worry, ma chére, things will work themselves out and you will know what to do.” She patted Belle’s hand with a little wink and they watched the inspector’s car make painfully slow tracks up the gravel drive to the house. When Bailey stepped out he gave the two ladies a wide smile and took quick strides straight toward them. Madame Potts wrapped the young man in a stifling embrace and wept on the lapel of his black wool pea coat, chanting, “Cher garçon! Cher garcon! My dear boy! My dear boy!”

After Madame broke away to start preparations on Lee’s favorite foods he dropped into the seat beside her with a smile. 

“All done?” Belle shoved a bookmark into her Dostoyevsky and turned to catch him studying her.

“Oui, everything has been bled out of me.” He picked up her book and fingered the spine with a smile. “So you decided to give it a try.”

“Yes, although I’m not sure a passionate ethical debate was what I really wanted right now.”

Lee smiled at her fondly and clasped her relaxed left hand in his own. “Don’t worry, ma bichette, a little philosophy won’t mix you up more than you already are.” His dark eyes took on a deep, penetrating glint as he cocked his head and lifted a half smile. Belle shrugged off the silly pet name, laughed a little nervously and slipped from the table. Bailey followed and soon they were wandering through the old French garden until they came to the same spot Belle had met with her father the first time. “Have you ever been to this house before?”

“Non.” Bailey took a seat on the carved stone bench and lazily watched Belle pluck a trailing yellow rose from the wall. “He bought it after I left, once business in the city picked up too much for him to leave.” Lee reached out and grasped her hand, pulling her onto the seat beside him. He leveled his eyes at her and Belle met his gaze openly albeit a smidge reluctantly. “He’s never going to change, Belle. He’s never going to be a better man. Even if he tries –this is all he knows and he’s too much of a coward to make it permanent.”

Belle stood up and paced back and forth slowly, tapping the delicate rose against her thigh in rhythm with every step. “That may be true. I know him and I know that he’s a coward most of the time…and a _beast_ another part of it,” she conceded, “but I also know myself.” Belle sat down and met Lee’s dark eyes again –facing every note of concern and trace of love that pierced through their sable depths with honest resolve. “…and I will never stop hoping he does change…because I love him and _I always will._ ”

 

As Jefferson navigated the car along La Saine, Gold sat, thumbing the gold tip of his cane. He no longer needed it for walking, but as a matter of self-defense or intimidation, the reliable crutch had served him well in the past. Hopefully tonight wouldn’t give cause, but no chances should be taken.

Arriving at their destination, Gold disembarked and bellowed an order for Jefferson to follow. “The valets will handle the car, Boy.”

The only time in which Gold stepped foot into La Tour d’Argent was for _these_ meetings. While the quality had declined over the years, the meals here were still better than most in Paris – especially the Canard à la presse. The Silver Tower had housed the organizations’ rare rendezvous since the late 1800’s.

Arriving on the upper floor, le Maitre d, Mustafa, greeted them calmly and immediately led Monsieur Gold and Jefferson to the private room awaiting. Gold was relieved to see the other heads had already arrived. As a matter of professional courtesy Gold knew he’d have to introduce Jefferson and explain the circumstances before any of them would feel comfortable discussing business.

“Monsieurs et Madame, this is Jefferson Arnaud. He is filling in while Hopper recovers. Jefferson, this is Monsieur Mohammed Jafar, Madame De Vil, and Signore Stromboli.” Gold began to take his seat among the heads while Jefferson took his cane and coat to the appropriate staff.

“Monsieur Gold, I had heard rumor that you no longer needed your cane. I’m disappointed to see it here with you.” Mohammed’s voice was deep and smooth – careful to enunciate each syllable with an over emphatic move of his lips and snake-like tongue.

“Oui, that is true. I merely carry it now for… sentimental reasons.”

“I’ve never known you to be the sentimental type, Andre.”

“I’ve never had much to be sentimental _for_ , Madame, but it’s been with me for as long as I can remember.” Cruella was a wickedly skinny old woman, often themed in some monochromatic and oversized fur, no matter the temperature outside. Her opera length slimline cigarette holder protruded from her pursed lips, nearly long enough to reach over the centerpiece of the table. She looked particularly frail sitting next to the behemoth on her left.

The obesely stout, dark-skinned man observed the niceties. His ink-black beard hung down past the table while the wild mustache curled out past his cheeks. The top of his head glistened against the candlelight and chandeliers. He was a fierce individual, but with an impulsive sentimental streak that often betrayed his harsh judgment.

“I heard about Venice, my friend. We are all glad to see you made it back _sano_. I trust your man will be _va bene anche_?”

“Oui. He should make a full recovery. Merci, Stromboli. I apologize if I involved any of your interests there in Venice.”  
  
A boisterous and hardy laugh consumed the room as Stromboli smacked Gold’s back with his bear-sized mitt of a hand. “No, no, no. I sold my interests in Venice. I haven’t been invested there for quite a while now.”

Recovering from the abusive gesture, Gold sipped the 1963 Quinta do Noval Nacional port before him. “Glad to hear it, my friend.” 

“Monsieur Jafar, how is business?” Even though Gold knew exactly what was going on in the city, it was a matter of respect and courtesy to ask anyway. 

“Fine, fine.” The four heads casually discussed the general state of their respective businesses, as they tasted their first course of imperial Sologne caviar with blinis. Chef Laurent Delarbre stopped by to give his respects and assure them that their meal would be, as always, personally tailored to their exact tastes.   

Delarbre kept excellent notes and Gold knew that the pressed duck breast in black pepper sauce, duck leg confit, goat cheese with pesto sauce and the rough red Burgundy wine were all a result of his personal preference. 

As Gold spooned a mouthful of the creamy Soufflé chocolat au lait before him, he was reminded of Belle, and hastened to begin the meeting. “Monsieurs et Madame, if I may, I feel the time has come to inform you as to the reason for this meeting. If I may have your attention s'il vous plait.” 

“I have decided to retire.” Soft gasps and sharp turns of each head toward him encouraged Gold to continue. “It is not immediate. As is tradition, I will look for a successor to hand the business to. Should I not find one, then any of you may bid at the various ventures I have and buy as much as you can afford. Any aspects not bought out will be shut down completely.”

Gold had seen it before, and even participated in these moves in the past. Usually no one bought out an organization, but instead just moved in on vacant territory once the old boss was out. This was a cheaper and more effective way to grow, although it often involved violent force.

“I will remain in the city and hope for your future respect and courtesy, however I will be officially uninvolved in any further business. I anticipate making the move in a matter of a few months, but ask your patience should complications arise.”

A smattering of assurances came from all angles of the table. Everyone was very accommodating and cordial, but Gold had been at this too long to be ignorant. Already he could see the wheels turning in everyone’s heads. With the announcement made, he decided it was best to exit and allow them the privacy to scrap amongst themselves.

After paying the outrageous bill and collecting his things, Gold met Jefferson at the car and proceeded home.

 _It was done_ , He pondered. _This is what Belle wanted and if this is what he needed to do in order to keep her, then so be it._ He’d mulled over the idea since her death. If he ever got the chance to redo things, he’d make the difficult choice. He’d become the better version of himself that she so often saw in him.

It would be a complicated and potentially lengthy process, but the plan was now in motion. _He’d done it…_ a hint of fear consumed him. _What would he do now? Would he have the resources to protect himself and Belle if need be? Could he hold on to some area of power? No!_ Gold knew the break must be clean and complete to satisfy his Belle. 

He fought off the cowardice and pushed on in his resolve. A genuine and warm smile painted his face as he anticipated telling her the news.

 

Step, arc, twirl! Belle dashed across the familiar dance floor in the moonlit hour with determined abandon. As exhausted as the day had left her, she’d missed this so much! The sleek, wooden floors, the antique barre, the floor to ceiling arched windows that knit the outside with the inside. She’d kept up her practice whenever she could in Rome, but August’s basement had been a poor substitute for the glorious open space of her familiar practice hall. Belle stepped into a glissade followed by a pas de bourrée. As one movement morphed seamlessly into the next she flowed comfortably through every choreographic phrase Andre had taught her. Sliding through first position into an open fourth, warm slender fingers slipped around her wrist from behind and trailed slowly up her arm to her shoulder, tracing the curve of her throat to the tip of her chin. A firm masculine hand gripped the left side of her waist and the other spanned her right as she was gently suspended in the air.

Belle lifted her arms and arched her back gracefully into Andre’s support as he spun her slowly in the moonlit hall and then shifted her gently into her next position. Belle caught her breath when the intoxicating combination of his power and strength snatched her out of mid-air in their next move and set her ever so gently on pointe. Stepping softly together they moved fluidly across the floor. From an unsupported balance a la seconde Belle began a deep penchee in arabesque into Gold’s waiting grip. There was no hesitation in his steps as he launched her into their greatest challenge yet, a stunning boat lift where she hovered above him from the heavens, her legs arched and one arm stretched out before her. He smiled up at his Belle, perspiration beading on his brow while his eyes never left her. Gold arced her gently to the ground and spun her away from him. They swayed from side to side and his hands climbed the walls of her torso until his elbows were hooked under her arms and her smooth cheeks were cupped in his hands. Falling back against him he lifted her once more in a camber press, his hands gripping her waist as she arched her head back until her forehead brushed his chin. He lowered her ever so slowly, her spine peeling back up and sliding against his body as he eased her to the ground. Panting into her uncoiling bun he nuzzled his way down the back of her neck, nipping ever so gently with his teeth and then soothing the skin by turn with the warm brush of his lips.

“Belle, ma Belle…”

Turning her face to face, his hands resting across her waist he dipped his head until their foreheads were touching. Belle closed her eyes and listened to their shared breaths until she felt his lips press against her own, softly at first and then more firmly as she returned the pressure. His tongue played softly on the swell of her lower lip until she opened her mouth and he sunk into the sweet, dark cavern tracing the walls with increasing passion. His arms clutched her tightly to his damp chest and their racing hearts beat against one another.

“I love you, ma Belle. Marry me, _ma moitié_ , my half… my light. There will never be anything more important to me than you. I promise Belle… I promise.” Tears dripped down her shoulder as he whispered the words into her ear. And she clung to him, every emotion crashing against his chest, trembling from head to foot as she abandoned fear and control, falling helplessly into him.

“I know Andre. I’m just worried what kind of life we can have…”

“No worries any more, ma Belle. I can give you what you want. Give me a few months and everything will be different. I promise. Marry me, mon amour.” She nodded, stifling a choked sob in his soaked white button-up shirt.

Andre swept up her trembling limbs in his arms, rocking her gently as they cried against each other he carried her gently down the halls and up the stair to her room.

“I will always be here, ma Belle. I will always take care of you,” he whispered as he set her gently on the soft bed. Her eyes were heavy and the tears were spent from them as she clung to him.

“Don’t go,” she whispered ever so quietly. Clutching his hand tightly she guided him gently beside her until he rested comfortably against her pillows, his long lean legs crossed atop the covers. Pillowed on his shoulder, his damp cheek against the crown of her head, they fell asleep. 


	21. Paris In The Springtime

Her neck was stiff and her right arm was tingling from lack of circulation but Belle didn’t want to move. Snuggled into Andre’s side, his steady breaths pulsed gently against her cheek. So he hadn’t left. Risking a little movement she ever so slowly lifted her head to get a glimpse of his sleeping form.

“Good morning,” Gold cocked a sleepy half smile down at her. “You drool.”

“I do not!”

Belle indignantly attempted to disentangle her legs from his, but he buried his knee further between her thighs and pivoted on top of her. Gently stroking back a tousled mass of curls from her forehead he leaned down and lightly kissed her nose. “Yes, you do.”

Belle rolled her eyes in response. The playfulness in his expression faded as he cradled the sides of her head in his hands. “Have you thought any more about your answer?” Belle searched his dark eyes, so full of hope and stifled fear. The soft waves of his shoulder length hair made a canopy around their faces filtering out the bright morning light. Lifting up her head, she whispered, “yes,” against his warm, dry lips. He caught her mouth with a hard, deep kiss that evaporated every drop of doubt and confusion and left her panting against the rough curve of his throat.

“Bonjour, my loves!” Mrs. Potts tapped briskly on the door as she pushed it open with a large wooden tray. “You lovelies need to eat. Can’t survive on just kisses, can we now?” she winked incorrigibly. Belle blushed from head to toe but no matter how she wriggled, Gold simply remained firmly on top, pinning her relentlessly beneath his lean, muscular body. His eyes were pooling with a mischief that matched the broad smile across his handsome face.

“Merci, Madame Potts,” he responded cordially. “I’m sure we’re both starved this morning.” Belle gave him a withering glare and poked him in the ribs but he remained stubbornly still until the kind woman exited, shutting the door behind her; then he lazily rolled aside and stretched out on his back. Belle poked him again before assaulting him with a rain of strategically placed tickles against the usual places. Gold yawned with dramatic boredom and smiled brightly. “I’m not ticklish.”

“Of course you’re not!” Belle gave up with a decisive flop back against the foot of the mattress. “Why would you be?”

Andre sat up and scooted lower until he was looking down into her lovely face. “Well, I can’t be bossed around that way…but there are other ways…”

“Oh, no! You’re not getting any of _that_ until we’re married!” Belle humphed and crossed her arms against her chest. Gold turned out his lower lip in a mock pout and then wiggled ten fingers in the air. “No-no-no!” Belle squirmed quickly off the bed before he could trap her.

“Fine, then!” he shrugged in irritable surrender. “How soon can we make this happen? Feel like eloping?”

“Nope! After this year, I feel like having a beautiful wedding.”

Andre growled and sulked cross-legged on the bed.

Belle served them both up steaming cups of espresso and bit off the end of a flaky croissant while she curled up next to him on the bed. Gold took a long relaxing sip while he perused the International Herald Tribune.

“ _Je suis bête!_ I am stupid! I forgot to call the theatre. Here they are announcing that the prima ballerina once thought dead is actually alive. The public is wondering when you will return to the ballet.”

Belle took another sip and leaned over to read the article printed in the right corner of the front page.  Her own face stared up at her in black and white ink. “I need to call Ruby before I decide anything.”

“Of course.” Gold nodded in agreement and shoved the newspaper aside shifting to face her while he cupped his dwindling espresso in both hands. “Now, when do you want to set the date?” He shot a winning smile at her and tore off a piece of the croissant in her hand.

“Hmm. Well, I think I will need at least two months to get everything settled.”

“ _Vraiment?_ Couldn’t we speed things up a bit?”

“No,” Belle shook her chestnut curls with a thoughtful furrow of her brow. “I will at least need that long to find an appropriate location and get all of the other details together. Plus, I’m not sure what to do about the ballet yet.”

“ _Pas de problème_ , no problem! Assuming you are returning, you will just start up after the wedding. It won’t make much of a difference at this point.” Andre scooped up the handful of crumbs in his lap and slid off the bed to deposit them on the tray along with his empty cup.

“Andre?” Belle gazed thoughtfully at her half-drunk espresso. “Do you think Bailey will come?”

Gold didn’t turn to face her. He was silent for a long moment before answering. “I’m only his father. And while I like to think someday we’ll have a relationship, I’m sure that his… _affinity_ toward you would give _you_ more sway in that matter.”

Belle nodded silently. She knew that despite everything, he would come if she asked him. Their friendship went much deeper than the shallow romantic notions he’d expressed. Belle knew that in time they’d have their kinship back again. Gold picked up his discarded shoes off the floor and returned to the bed, leaning in to press a tender kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you at dinner, okay?” He offered her a weak half-smile and left the room.

Belle continued to sit for another fifteen minutes on her bed turning over the events with Bailey and everything that had transpired this past week; then she crossed the room and picked up her cell phone. Pressing five on her speed dial, Ruby’s name flashed across the screen.

“Ruby? Oui, it’s me.”

 

 

Regina Prevot cracked open the warped shutter of the crappy hotel window, inviting a small whisper of fresh air and momentary release from the stifling heat.

“Regina Dear, you need to shut that. You can’t afford to let anyone see you.” Cora extended an arm across her daughter and tapped the shutter closed.

“I can’t stay in this _rat hole_ another minute! It’s miserable, Mother.” Regina crossed both arms tensely across her chest and shot her mother a scathing glare.

“Sweetheart, you’re losing focus.” Cora Millet was ever Regina’s opposite, cool and self-possessed in the face of crisis; steered their family ambition with unemotional drive.

“Are you serious? I can’t do anything _but_ focus –on Gold, that tramp, the imbecile who got in the way of Killian’s shot. I won’t even be able to attend Killian’s funeral!”

Summoning a reserve of patience, Cora leveled her eyes at her daughter. “You can’t allow past bitterness to get in the way of our endgame. Despite your futile attempts at sullying his reputation in the past, he remains a respected part of the performing arts community.  We need to end Gold for good. We can’t afford to make any more mistakes.”

“He ended my fiance’s career!” Regina stormed past her mother with a thunderous clack of her high heels against the grimy tile. “When Daniel was removed as cavalier he left everything: Paris…me. _That_ condescending bastard ruined my life simply because he didn’t think _I_ was working hard enough. I wanted the press to know what a heartless monster he is.”

“Yes, but, Sweetheart, let’s be honest,” Cora crossed the room, confronting her daughter’s taut back and fragile nerves, “Daniel was never right for you. He wasn’t nearly talented enough to dance with you.” She rested a light touch on her daughter’s tense shoulder, but Regina shrugged it away with an abrupt jerk.

“He was the only one I _wanted_ to dance with, Mother!”

Cora released a smooth, controlled breath. “None of that matters anymore. I promise you’ll have your revenge on Gold, in the meantime you _focus_ on the girl. I’ve managed to dredge up a man from her past who I think can help us. Also, I’ve gotten word that Gold has announced his pending retirement from the organization.”

Regina pivoted abruptly, gawking in disbelief, “Retiring?”

“I intend to make sure we move in on his territory before he’s aware of what’s happening and before anyone _else_ has a chance. This means we can finally have what we’ve always wanted. ”

She met her mother’s gaze with questioning hesitancy. “And what is that?”

“The ability to make our family the greatest power in all of France, of course! And _you_ will finally be prima ballerina of the Paris Ballet.”

“Mother, how can I? They know I was involved with Belle’s attempted murder.” Regina sunk two clenched fists into her sides with a dark scowl. Something about being in her mother’s presence always caused her to revert to a pouty child. “That idiot girl at the club reported everything.”

“Darling, haven’t you learned anything? You need to have a little more faith,” Cora soothed with a calculated tilt of her head. “With the right connections and influence we can make anything disappear. We can have you shining center-stage in the media again, and that girl will be nothing more than a brief memory. Together, we can do this. We can bring an end to them both. Trust me.” The words came out unflinchingly serene, methodically matching the charming smile that painted her face.

 

 

“Belle, where _are_ you taking me?” Bailey smirked and buried both hands in the pockets of his corduroy trousers while they ascended the cement steps.

“I want you to meet some of my friends. You and August were so wonderful to Lani and I in Rome, I just wanted to return the favor. When _was_ the last time you visited Paris?” Belle paused at the exit of the metro Pyrénées on Rue de Pyrénées raking her teeth over her bottom lip as she scanned the various shops and establishments lining the street. 

“It hasn’t been long enough,” he mumbled with an upward glance in the direction she was facing. “Do you even know where we’re going?” He teased with a low chortle.

“Oui, of course I do! I just…well, I’m so use to riding around with Hopper I’ve gotten a little turned around. Maybe I just need to call Ruby for a little memory refreshment.”

“Memory refreshment?” Bailey laughed aloud and snatched up her phone. “Where are we going? You know these phones come with GPS?”

“No, I didn’t. Why thank you, kind sir.” Belle snapped sarcastically with a stubborn tilt of her chin. “I really haven’t had a chance to learn about it since Andre upgraded it.”

“Well, he really ought to show you how to use it, considering how often he loses track of you,” he quipped with a mock shake of his curly head. Belle gave him a playful shove and kept stride with his long, relaxed pace. It was good to see him laughing again and it warmed her heart to witness his effort to support her in her decision to follow her heart and marry his father.

“That way!” She wagged her finger with a simultaneous step towards the famous Rue de Belleville. “We’re going to La Cagnotte de Belleville. It’s this way!” Belle nodded confidently. “I remember now.” She held out her palm for her phone, but Bailey only sidestepped her.

“Non! Non! Now that I know you’re getting us lost –I think I’ll take over.”

Belle rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. “ _N’importe quoi!_ Whatever!”

The afternoon was bright and cool, la rue teeming with eager spring shoppers armed with pastel bags and parcels. Like all other Parisians, Belle loved her city in the springtime above all other seasons. Paris was a flowering mecca for passionate fashionistas looking to buy some _prêt-à-porter_ (ready-to-wear luxury labels) or those simply partaking in some casual _lêche-vitrine_ (window licking as the French liked to call it).

La Cagnotte was crowded this afternoon but Marie Michel, David, Emma, and Ruby were already convened around one of the outdoor tables.

“Belle! Venir!” Marie Michel flashed them her classically beautiful smile and popped up to wave them toward the two empty patio chairs. David stood sheepishly but offered his hand to Bailey with a genuine smile of welcome. Belle introduced Emma and Ruby and didn’t miss the interest that sparked in Bailey’s face when he gripped the blonde’s outstretched hand.

“Wonderful to meet you all! Well, most of you.” Bailey smirked a roguish smile at the inspecteur that was met by laughter and ragging from everyone. 


	22. Her Arrangement

While Gold certainly didn’t like being dependent on anything or anyone, he had to admit that it was nice to have his man back in the same house. Even while recovering further, Hopper was making himself useful by looking through some recent transaction records and various sundries. His movements were stiff and unhurried partially due to the last bit of recovery and the other to relentlessly thick bandaging around his mid-section by Madame Potts, who took the doctor’s orders very much to heart.

The two men had gladly moved on since the incidents in Venice as Gold updated Hopper with his recent decision to retire. He assured him that he would continue his employment if he so desired, but understood if he wanted to try his hand at something else. Hopper had every intention of continuing on and Gold breathed a silent sigh of relief.

As they sat across from each other examining miscellaneous business records, Hopper sucked in a quick, sharp breath and took a second glance at a sheet in front of him. His eyes first widened and then narrowed behind his red, round spectacles as he sifted through another stack with frenzied abandon.

“Monsieur, it was your intention to sell off the various investments and essentially disband the organization, is that correct?”

“Oui, Hopper. I thought we just discussed this,” Gold clipped. Plucking a staple from another bundle of documents he fingered through the rumpled pages without so much as an upward glance.

“Well, Monsieur, it’s just that…I think something may be going on within the organization.” Hopper was always hesitant to question his long-time boss, but knew well enough that if he didn’t speak up _now_ it would haunt his conscience for a long while to come. Pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, turning over the discrepancy in his mind.

“What do you mean, man? Get to the point!”

“Well, when you sold each of your businesses, the agreement you have with the bank provides for account information from the purchaser. Have you noticed that about eighty percent of the businesses were purchased from the same account?”

Gold finally peeled his attention away from his own stack of ledgers, fanning them out on the desk as he paused to peer over at his trusted assistant. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that it would appear as if one account is buying the bulk of your interests. Meaning, that while the organization may be downsizing a bit, all the important investments have remained under the control of a central entity. The organization isn’t disassembling at all Monsieur, it’s just changing hands.”

Gold snatched the paperwork from Hopper and furiously flipped through the transaction records. _He was right_. How could he not have noticed this?

“Any idea who it may be, Monsieur?”

“No” came the cold and short response from the furrowed brow across the desk. Gold’s face was rot with confusion while he tried to decipher the emerging pattern.

The two men sat in silence awhile. Each one pondering what this meant. Was someone trying to _buy_ their way in? They hadn’t heard of any new players to the scene…

The sudden alarm from Gold’s pocket, jarred his mind from the enigma. “Damn it! We have to leave this for later. I have an appointment to taste cakes with Belle and her entourage of friends.”

 

Belle ran her fingertips over the glistening ripples and imagined the heavenly fabric against her skin. The dress’ peplum, ruched bodice was nipped at the waist with a five-point rhinestone flower. 

“It’s gaudy!”

“You’re one to talk. It is not! I like it! Belle, try it on.” Marie Michel shot Ruby a biting glare and dumped two more gowns into Belle’s arms, ushering her behind the dressing curtain. “Try them all on and we’ll see.”

Emma plopped down on the velvet circular settee and stared blankly at the chandelier above them. “What do you think these dresses cost? Oh, my god! What are we suppose to wear?”

“A bit more than what mine did, I expect…and whatever Belle chooses. And oui! You will _have_ to wear a dress.” Marie Michel ignored Emma’s animalistic grunt.

“Well, I still like the last one she tried!” Ruby readjusted her leather mini and dropped down beside Emma. “So _branché!_ ”

“Oui,” Marie Michel agreed with a decisive nod, “it was very fashionable, but not really Belle –don’t you agree?”

Ruby had to concede. In the past hour the two things they’d all agreed on was that first, Belle looked beautiful in almost anything and second, she seemed more at home in a traditional/ old-world glamour.

With a rustling of heavy taffeta, Belle waddled out onto the little platform for them all to see. Emma gawked and released a hardy guffaw. “Well, if you plan to leave him at the alter you’ve got your own parachute!” All four girls broke into giggles while the timid sales associate and manager stepped politely aside.

“Oh, it really does swallow me, doesn’t it?”

“Go try on the next one,” Marie Michel prodded, “and for goodness sake don’t pick up _anything else_ Emma chooses!”

The next dress was a strapless white organza with a sweetheart neckline and wide, beaded lace appliqué skirt. Everyone liked it but no one loved it. A charmeuse V-neck mermaid, a fitted halter of silk georgette and faille, a one-shoulder silk crepe with a ruffled train, and a layered organza with a full feather skirt brought them no closer to a decision. The employees at Metal Flaque were lovely, helpful people but in the end, the quartet left for lunch empty handed.

“Didn’t your fiancé want to make appointments for you with some dreamy designers for something custom?” Ruby shot a sideways glance at her friend under a wave of thick black lashes. She never left the house without a full face of perfectly executed makeup. The leggy brunette was such an icon of modern style, Belle reflected fondly. Always sporting the latest body hugging fashions with perfect French ease.

“Well…yes.” Belle bit her _oeufs en gel_ é _e_ , taking time to both chew and swallow slowly before answering. “But, I wanted to have this experience. See if I could find something with all of you.” She shifted uncomfortably in the café seat. “Besides, the people he mentioned are legends and I’d feel completely uncomfortable meeting them.”

“Belle,” Ruby tipped her brunette ponytail saucily to the side, “you’re a celebrity in France! Prima ballerina!”

“Not to mention who you’re marrying!” Emma added through a mouthful of salade niçoise.

“You’re _already_ in the limelight, Sweetie. And you’ve _already_ been to dozens of parties with famous people. You’d better get use to it soon.” Marie Michel offered a comforting smile while she swept a few stray crumbs from her periwinkle cardigan. “Why not make the appointment? You never know, maybe it’ll be much easier this way.”

“Well, alright,” Belle acquiesced. “I know I’ve met a few celebrities here and there but it’s always awkward. I just don’t…I don’t think about myself like _that_.”

“Well, I have every intention of guilting invitations and favors out of you so keep up the socializing!” Ruby winked, snatched a bite off Belle’s plate and popped it gingerly between her crimson lips before her friend could protest. No matter her status in society, Belle knew she could always count on her girls. They were a loyal lot, and if her own faked death hadn’t changed that, nothing would.

“Okay,” she surrendered. “I’ll make the call after we finish here. But don’t eat too much! We have cake tasting next!”

An hour later Gold met with the girls and famed chocolatier, Jacques Genin in the Marais district. The glorious 17th century chocolate sanctuary was a luxurious shrine to the sacred art and science of crafting beautiful, unique pieces of candy. Arm in arm, Gold led Belle up the winding metal stairway to the kitchens above. _Le parfum_ of toffee and cinnamon scented the air. Dedicated craftsmen poured over workstations gently molding delectable confections. Attractively displayed on a clean marble countertop, four miniature tiered cakes of various elegant designs were offered for the groups tasting.

Emma and Ruby were partial to the orange liqueur, while Marie Michel preferred the hazelnut crème.  Belle and Andre fought playfully over her preference for _chocolat noir_ versus toffee buttercream. In the end, Belle made the creative decision with Genin to have each layer encompass its own unique flavor under an elegant gold leaf design. Jacques Genin grasped Monsieur Gold’s hand with visible respect, whispering something in his ear as the group filed out of the kitchen, reminding Belle once again of just how far her fiancé’s influence reached in Paris.

 

One o’clock in the morning and he hadn’t come a damned step closer to singling out the head responsible for this. Gold shoved aside another useless stack of documents and combed all ten long fingers through his thick, walnut mane. What hadn’t he thought of? He was so close; he could feel it!

“You’ve gotten grayer, Andre.”

Gold bristled at the familiar, feminine voice and then wearily sighed before lifting his heavy head. Silhouetted in the doorway, a curvy brunette in a crisp, white pinstripe suit stepped into the dim light of his city office.

“Good evening, Alina.”

“Something told me I’d find you here.” The husky voice riddled with its unmistakable thick, Russian accent had plagued the back of Gold’s mind for the past month. This meeting was unavoidable, _although_ frustratingly timed.

“I wondered when I’d hear from you again,” Gold poured on fresh charm, rising to greet her open handed he crossed around the jumbled stacks of papers. The woman didn’t move to take it, choosing instead to run a neatly manicured fingertip across the top of one leather armchair as she circled around to his side.

“I hear you’re getting married,” she stated abruptly. Alina pressed her lips into a stiff, thin smile; her cat-like green eyes flashing a thousand more meanings into the simple statement.

“Come to offer your congratulations?”

“This wasn’t part of the deal.” Halting inches from his stoic face, milky, almost translucent skin clung to the bones of a fading beauty. Time and weariness had stolen the blush in her cheeks and whittled the wrinkles around her eyes but confidence and power had kept Alina far from the trap of middle-aged degeneration. She fixed him with a frigid stare, exuding all the confidence and power he remembered, but Andre Gold wasn’t easily intimidated, not even by Alina Polakoff. Brushing two hands over the breast of his black wool suit, he leaned coolly against the ridge of his polished desk and waited for her to speak.

Alina’s eyes changed like the sun piercing a thunderstorm. Meeting his stance with a casual one shoulder drop and head tilt of her own, “You do remember the deal, don’t you?”

“Of course,” straight, clipped and unemotional.

“Prime her for prima ballerina, use your connections to establish her in society, and then _leave her to me_.”

“I remember everything, _except_ that last bit.” Gold stood erect with hands crossed before him as a challenging smirk crept up his face. “ _That_ was never written in the agreement.”

Alina gave an exasperated groan and met his game with bitter contempt. “No! But it was implied! What right do _you_ have to marry _my daughter_! This is exactly the kind of life I was trying to avoid for her!”

Gold fought off the day’s weariness that struggled to impose its will on him. Realizing the foretelling truth of her statement, he looked down at the piles of paperwork before him.

“I _know_ about your intentions, Andre. I know more about them than _you_ do.”

Gold’s head snapped up in wary suspicion.

Alina’s tinkling laughter accompanied her dramatic upraised palms. “Oh, you have nothing to fear from _me_! As long as you truly mean to quit the organization…” Alina flashed another fiery glance at him. The woman was positively manic. “I have no intention of either splitting you up or taking over your ‘little operation’. Red Russia isn’t interested in expanding its foothold in Europe at the moment.” A devilish smile puckered at the corners of her mouth. “No, you have nothing to fear from me. I know you’re a more than adequate caretaker for her. I’m sure she’ll have a very comfortable future.” Alina crossed the room and stood still with her back to him, her eyes restlessly searching the Paris twilight. Clearly, Alina intended to make good use of his wealth in the future.

“But I _still_ do not want her in the business, which is why I am going to help you remove yourself entirely.” Alina pivoted to face him, her yellow-green eyes had cooled to placid, mossy pools. “There are a few things you will need to know. A recent player has emerged, buying up investments throughout Austria, France and Italy. It hasn’t gone unnoticed by the Russians, which is how I became aware of your involvement with Belle. Prevot’s attempt on her life was only the beginning. Cora Millet intends to seize control of the entire French mafia. Her ambitions are not in Russia’s best interest so they’ve sent me here to _manage_ the situation.”

Gold crossed the room to pour himself a hasty shot of Bushmill’s; a second glass he dangled between his thumb and middle finger in front of his fiancé’s mother. The seasoned Russian gulped the proffered contents before discarding the glass on the windowsill beside her. Absently circling the dry rim with repetitive strokes, she gazed into oblivion and asked, “How is she… _Isabella_?”

“Good.” Gold perched silently on the arm of the leather chair behind her, studying his old acquaintance apprehensively. He neither trusted nor distrusted Alina Polakoff. She had simply been a necessary player in the game of his life. The Polakoffs were close friends of his step-father. Alexander Polakoff, Alina’s father, was Marcel’s banker. The Polakoffs owned the largest bank in Paris along with the ballet house and several other investments. Alina managed most of these from Moscow, visiting France once or twice annually when required. They hadn’t spoken in over a year, ever since…

“How is your son doing?”

Gold grimaced. Did she think he’d forgotten? He would always be grateful for her intervention in attaining full custody of Bailey. Not to mention the calling-in of her long-standing note that became the means of attaining his true love. _“Make her prima!”_ the Russian had insisted with a flippant wave of her elegant hand. _“Don’t ever mention me, and don’t ever let her know why you’re doing this.”_

Technically he hadn’t broken either of her stipulations. Falling in love with Belle was a completely separate matter. She was prima and she was a celebrity as he’d promised. He’d completed his end of the deal. That she’d chosen to stay at his side rather than fly away was entirely her own decision.

“ _Il est bien_. Busy also. So how do you want to go about this?” The sharp businessman surfaced in Gold as he began riddling out a plan to finish Cora and Regina once and for all. “I assume you have something up your sleeve. Some go-to method of ‘ _management_ ’? –you always do.”

Alina’s lips curled into a wide grin as she swayed past him like a slick, Persian cat, her tinkling laugh like a thousand silver bells trailing behind her.  “Oh I do, indeed.”


	23. Inferno

“I won’t be able to make it tonight, Sweetheart,” Andre’s honeyed voice soothed in her ear.

Belle swallowed her disappointment. After all, these unexpected meetings _had_ become a less frequent occurrence since Gold’s promise to resign from the organization. With a silent bob of her head she gave him her love and hung up the cell phone. It was probably for the best. There were a dozen wedding details she could accomplish with an empty afternoon. Shoving her cell into a deep pocket of her purse, she turned on her heel and shot down Rue Halévy to Orcanta Lingerie. Yes, there were certainly a few errands she could run _without_ her fiancé present. With a shy smirk she wove through the cars and crowds to the two story glass exterior of the famed boutique. One turn around the small shop and she’d selected a gold silk babydoll with Chantilly lace detail, a baby blue slip with silk ribbon soutache, and a rose silk chiffon slip with leavers lace accents.  

Bubbling with girlish glee she paid for the items and stepped outside. Swinging her shopping bag over one shoulder she turned to make her way toward the metro station when something caused her to freeze mid stride. Crossing the rue with deliberate strides, Cora Millet slipped into a side door of the Paris Opera House. Belle forgot her errands, her schedule, and wedding details in the throws of indignation and furry. Threading her way through traffic she arrived a few minutes after Cora at the same side entrance. Slowly, cautiously she wedged open the door and slipped inside.

Adjusting to the dimly lit hall she tread on velvet carpet toward the door she knew led backstage. Wherever Cora had disappeared to and whatever was going on, Belle was confident she could establish a safe, unobstructed view from the catwalk if she could make it there silently. Then she could call for help and catch the murderous woman in whatever scheme she was up to next. Adrenaline flooded through her veins as she tiptoed her way silently up the dark stairs to the catwalk entrance. Perched silently in her hideaway she waited breathlessly for some sign of Cora.

Where had the woman disappeared to? The opera house was grandiose and one could get lost so easily in the many rooms or floors of audience and stage. Belle would have written off the vision as a silly flight of imagination if not for one thing.

Regina stood mid-center stage, talking with another, older woman as a single ghost light dimly lit the sides of their conspiring faces. The women paused when Cora’s entrance commanded their attention. On hands and knees, Belle carefully scurried her way to an outlook among the rigging for better observation. _Why were Cora and Regina meeting this woman in the ballet theater? Who was the older, dark haired lady?_ Belle strained with all her might against the wall of silence to overhear their soft-spoken voices. It was a formal interaction, clearly some sort of business meeting, not a social one. The question remained, however, why meet here?

As Belle spied their fictitious smiles and hollow eyes from the safety of the catwalk , the ghostly creaks and groans of the old opera house made her shiver but there was no one around her, so she turned her gaze back to the stage, where a sudden onslaught of expletives recaptured her attention. The three women all stared into the audience at a lone figure making its way up the center aisle.

Even from 90 feet above, the man’s long brown hair and pristine suit were unmistakable to Belle’s affectionate eye – it was Gold. “Andre?!” The word escaped her lips before she could think. Her hand quickly clasped over her mouth while her eyes widened in disbelief. Fortunately, her surprise was covered by the explosive greeting from Mademoiselle Prevot and no one was the wiser, about their audience of one.

Gold wove a path through the seats, slowly edging closer to the stage. He stared them down the whole time like a shark seeking blood. His words were sharp and his gestures precise. Regina and Cora followed his movements with their eyes only as they attempted to maintain their dignity in the suddenly uneasy situation. The third woman had retreated from the mother-daughter pair and stood off to the side detaching herself from the ill-fated team. _Did she work for Andre? Was this one of his favors she’d heard about?_ So many questions… She felt a sudden vibration in her purse that nearly caused her to jump out of her skin. The caller ID was reassuring.

Without any social niceties, Belle anxiously explained things to her friend. “Lee! You’re not going to believe what’s going on!” she wrasped. “I’m in the theater rafters watching your dad meet with Cora and Regina and some other woman– mrffhphhmmmmm!”

As quick as lightning, Belle found herself unable to speak past the meaty hand over her mouth. The cloth it held smelled weird as her panicked breathing inhaled the odd fumes. Within a matter of seconds – before she could think to scream or fight – she was unconscious.

 

As Gold smoothly made his way up the stairs and onto the stage with the trio of women, Alina removed herself from the forthcoming onslaught. With a righteous indignation burning in his eyes and the youthful strength of a passionate love giving air to his steps, he strode straight to Regina and Cora. Meeting their glares coolly, he looked back and forth at each woman as they awaited his next move.

Mere inches from each other, the back of his right hand came from nowhere as it blindsided Regina’s cheek with a powerful smack that echoed the great hall. Regina stumbled two steps to her left before falling to her knees and grasping her pulsing face.

Cora stepped forward to protest, but before she could squeak out a word, Gold’s other hand raised to silence her. She stepped back to her place, recognizing full well that look in his eye. When they were younger he had the force of a cavalier. Now, many years removed, having recovered from his injury, his strength had grown. He moved in power only forged by the fires of hardship and torment. She couldn’t win this type of battle and she knew it, so instead, she resorted to the politicking she’d flourished in.

“Andre? While we both know my daughter may have deserved that, I’ve never known you to raise your hand to a lady…”

“Well, Cora, allow me to clarify.” With Regina put in her place, kneeling before him, he turned his attention to her mother. Planting his feet like oaks in front of her, he proceeded to volley arrows of condemnation. “You’re absolutely right. I’d never hit a lady. I would, however, hit a heinous wench who attempted to steal from me!” he spat through clenched teeth. “A sorry excuse for a poisonous retch who not only attempted to kill my fiancé, but whom also orchestrated an assassination attempt on me.”

Cora’s face froze in an unyielding air of cockiness, while her silence confirmed the point. “No, Dearie, I’d never hit a lady, but that’s not really the point.”

Regaining a sliver of composure, Regina rose to look Gold in the eye as he continued. “What is your point… Gimp?” Her voice shook with a rush of uneasy adrenaline.

“Yes, please get to the point, my dear, I’m afraid you’ve interrupted a private meeting.” Cora’s predictable attempt at gaining control was quickly squashed by Gold’s low, smooth chuckle.

“Yes, of course!” he grinned trenchantly. “Your meeting with Alina about Regina becoming prima. I’m afraid that it’s not as private as you may have thought.” With a snap of his lean fingers, half a dozen men stepped out from various shadows and alcoves on stage. All were armed heavily. Each focused on the mother and daughter conspirators.

“You’ve been quite the busy little bee, haven’t you Cora? What with buying out Stromboli’s Italian interests and now attempting to buy your way into the French marketplace through my interests… quite ambitious. But I’m afraid it was all for naught. You see Alina’s Russian friends don’t like that you’ve made such pertinent moves. And there is no way in hell that I’ll sit back while you take _my_ place here.”

Realizing the unforgiving nature of her captor, Cora’s thoughts fell to the one man they had working for them. Where was that idiot? She’d have to stall Gold’s plan the best she could. “Now Gold, I thought you were trying to get out. I’m certain I paid a fair price for those investments. You should be just fine when you retire, why do you care so much?”

“Oh hmm, let me think. I spent decades building an empire after you ruined my career in the ballet. Your daughter then swindled her way into my tutelage and proceeded to attempt to ruin my standings in the industry. Why _wouldn’t_ I care if you two were now trying to overtake my business?”

The six men had formed a tight semi-circle behind Regina and Cora as Gold turned his back to them. “Here’s what’s going to happen instead. Tomorrow morning, the papers will read: ‘The once adored Mademoiselle Prevot was found burned alive with her mother, after a failed second attempt to murder her former coach and his fiancé, current prima ballerina Belle Dupont.’ You'll be in the headlines again –that should make you happy,” Gold’s voice turned dark and looming, “but I’m afraid it'll be the last time, Dearie.”

“You pompous snake! I’m gonna–”

“WHAT!?! You’re going to what!?! I’m half tempted to cut out your lying, poisonous tongue. It’d be exactly what you deserve.”

As daring him to try, Regina looked him dead in the eye and asked, “Why don’t you? What’s stopping you?

“Haven’t you heard, Dearie? I’m a changed man; turning over a new leaf.” Gold’s sarcasm served him well in hiding the genuine truth behind those statements.

“Oh that’s right. You think you have love. You believe she actually loves you. You took advantage of that poor girl just like you tried to do with...”

Gold wasted no time listening to her spin her web. Instead he leapt with an unbridled force and punched her smack in the mouth. A loud crack of bone proclaimed to the world that Regina’s jaw had been nearly shattered. The immediate discoloration and swelling silenced her foul speech.

It had been awhile since he’d actually punched anyone. Gold shook the discomfort from his hand. While he felt slight remorse over losing control so quickly, the majority of him enjoyed the ensuing whimpers and moans that came from his former student.

With a passive wave of his hand Gold directed the ruthless attack like an orchestra. The team of thugs and brutes dragged a whimpering Regina and a despondent Cora to center stage, where two chairs waited. As the women were bound and gagged, Gold bent his interest to Alina.

“It seems like you have things under control here, Andre. I’m going to disappear before the show really begins.”  
  
“I understand, Dearie. Of course. We’ll be in touch.” Without another word, Alina snatched up her dark woolen trench and disappeared out the back of the stage.

Whirling back to his captives he continued to direct the band of men around him. Pointing them to various points on stage and in the house, each man carried his can of gasoline and proceeded to douse the regal splendor of the famed Opera House around them.

“You know ladies, I loved my home in Marseille. After dealing with vile creatures such as yourselves all day in the city, I longed for the solitude of my chateau overlooking the sea… but now it lay in ashes. You burned down my home and tried to murder my fiancé. Fortunately, that foul Englishman and his fat friend botched up the attempt and my Belle was saved.”

Gold grabbed the one remaining gas can at his feet. Tipping it over to create a trail of fuel, he stalked toward them, circling slowly he surveyed the puddle of acrid liquid at their feet. The various thugs had finished their job and returned to their master center stage.

“I’m not often this involved in my business. I leave the dirty work to men and women more suited to disappear and be replaced. There are times, however, when something needs to be done with a guaranteed efficiency that only I can provide.” Leaning into Regina’s hardened face, “You’ll never stop coming after us. You left Belle to die in that inferno and so I leave you.” With a quick raise of both hands, he cued two men into action. The butts of their rifles clipped the base of both women’s heads, knocking them unconscious.

Stalking toward the back entrance, he gave one final command: “Disappear.” Everyone scattered through different exits as Gold brought a solitary match from his pocket. Striking it against his hardened sole, a bright flame burned large. Tossing the match against a nearby curtain, he quickly exited to the alley behind the theatre.

 

Her arms tingled and her head pounded. The room swam into focus and looming above her was six feet of familiar ego. Belle scowled at him and moved to stand up, but her arms were caught on the barre above her head. A quick glance confirmed she was handcuffed. “What do _you_ want?” she spat with her darkest glare.

“Me? Oh, I don’t want anything,” Gaston Gautier sneered with obnoxious satisfaction. “I’m just here to deliver you to my boss.”

“Whaaat –what do you mean? I don’t understand,” vomit boiled up inside her as she stubbornly fought off a vicious wave of nausea. Squinting her eyes and summoning slow breaths she hazarded another upward glance at the pompous fool in front of her. “Your boss? Why would Madame Vigneron want you to tie me up?”

“That old fou! Nothing! I don’t work for her. Aww, pauvre bébé, poor baby! No wonder you’re confused,” Gaston tilted his head with mock pity; a sly, pinguid smile curling the corners of his thick lips. “Non, I work for someone much more powerful, Mademoiselle Prevot.”

Belle blanched and fought another tidal wave of nausea. They wouldn’t see her weak! She would be strong and she would find a way out of this, as God was her witness! Crackling with spite, Belle bit her bottom lip ‘til blood drained in her mouth and let him continue on, which he was only too happy to do.

“Did you think I wanted you back? After you ran off with that old man? I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole; but my orders came from higher up. Mademoiselle wanted to teach you a lesson so she had Monsieur Hook and I act out that little drama in the alley for you. I forget how gullible you are sometimes,” Gaston topped off with a sick smile.

“Why would she want you to do that?”

Gaston rolled his eyes impatiently. “You really are bête! Because she wanted to be prima of course!”

“She was already prima in Austria? Why would she want this?” the fog was starting to lift in Belle’s brain and she blabbered innocently to keep her captor busy while she puzzled a way out of this new scrape.

“Austria is nothing to Paris!”

“Of course!” Belle bobbed her head in meek understanding. “I didn’t have to be prima, I would have given it to her –I still will if she wants it this badly.”

Gaston seemed to mull this over for a moment before he leaned in with a squint-eyed glare. Belle gathered up every feminine wile in her being and delivered what she hoped was an innocent expression. For a moment they just stared at one another until Gaston’s face relaxed and he rewarded her with a watery smile. “Maybe, but we’ll just have to wait and see when she gets…”

Gaston never got to finish his sentence; Belle’s muscular right leg complete with three inch heel met the side of his skull with practiced precision. She thanked God for every strengthening exercise and ballet lesson she’d ever received when Gaston’s dense, unconscious body smacked backward against the wood floor. The force of the impact causing the cuff key to slip from his shirt pocket and slide a few feet away from his limp frame. Straining her left Manalo Blahnik across the waxed floor Belle made a vain attempt to pin the silver key beneath her heel.   

 

As Gold turned his attention back to the smoking building, he caught the echo of steps running down the alley toward him. He quickly turned to see a winded Bailey bending over to gasp for breath. Between broken heaves of air, he managed to get out one question: “Where’s Belle?”

 “Why the hell are you here? And what do you mean? I had to cancel dinner, so I assume she’s out shopping or something.”

“No! No no no no no… She’s here! Damn it!”

Gold’s eyes zoomed in on his son’s face. With a hand on each shoulder, he helped steady the recovering messenger. “How do you know she’s here? Where is she?”

“I talked to her like half an hour ago. She said she was in the rafters watching you meet with Cora and Regina and some other woman. As she was talking I heard something like a muffled grunt, and then we were cut off. I got here as fast as I could.”

Gold turned from his son to the flaming structure in front of him. Taking only a moment to process, he sped back into the inferno. Without hesitation, Bailey followed his father into the burning Opera House in search of Belle.

 

After fifteen minutes of struggling Belle was resigning to the fact that she’d be there all night until she smelled the smoke. It was faint at first, barely a whisper of what was climbing up the walls of the floor below. She almost dismissed it, but then she heard the terrifying crackle of ancient wood splitting and collapsing. This practice room was located directly above the stage. The stage must be on fire! Grasping the horrifying situation, she strained with all her might to reach the key. Across the room her cell phone was vibrating inside her purse. Nothing was in reach! Where was Andre? Was he still here? In the grip of wild panic, Belle released a shrill scream, writhing in the handcuffs until rivulets of blood streamed down her wrists. She could see small dark clouds begin to seep under the door and slowly rise in the room. The wood floor was hot under her outstretched body so she stood up. Her lungs ingesting the acrid, black smoke with every tiny gasp.

The room was dark but the floor glowed an eerie red. Across from her, Belle heard a muffled groan. “Gaston! Gaston!” she choked. She wanted to scream, but smoke burned in her mouth and lungs, so she coughed out his name with stubborn repetition. Eventually she heard his movements and felt the floor creak under his weight.

There was a loud bang when the door slammed into the wall. Plumes of gray smoke and heavy steps rushed into the blackened room! “Belle?” Gold’s voice pierced the darkness.

“Andre!” Belle choked barely above a whisper.

“Belle!” Broken relief flooded his voice as she heard him move toward her and then without warning the sound of flesh pounding flesh, growling, crashing and cursing. Belle strained to see through the pitch-dark fog, two figures were wrestling on the floor. The larger, beneath the smaller. Gold stood up to leave, when Gaston suddenly reached up to snare his leg. Another man’s boot swung up and cuffed the brute across the jaw. Bailey and Andre stood for a moment over the man and then pivoted back to Belle.

Bailey called out to her, but Gold was ahead of him, his hands crawling across the barre until he felt the cuffs around her wrists. “Where’s the key? Tell me where the key is, Belle.” Belle shouted instructions over the crack of timber. Key in hand, Bailey crossed the glowing floor and freed her.

Gold wrapped both arms around her and clutched her close to his heart. “We need to go – _now_!”

“Where’s Gaston?” Andre stared at her incredulously, already flame and smoke were billowing through the door.

“We can’t just leave him here –he’ll die.” Both men stared at each other for only an instant.

“I’ll get him.” Bailey hoisted the heavy man over his shoulders and led the way across the long stretch of the practice room, towards the far exit. One wall was already ablaze, devouring the door where both men had entered. As Bailey’s load began to slip, Andre skipped ahead to steady his son’s efforts. Flames snaked up the walls and ceilings behind them as they moved. Below them, the floor shook and crackled. Bailey passed through the door into the hall and Andre was close on his heel. Belle’s next step pierced the wood floor, catching her foot ankle deep in a hole.

“Andre!”

Gold immediately pivoted around and reversed his steps toward her, but the floor was fragile and his steps were hasty. Helplessly she watched the brittle boards give way beneath his feet. He plunged down into the blazing pocket, only his blood drained fingers were visible –clinging to two feeble planks.

With a blood curdling shriek Belle dug her fingers into the splintered wood around her foot, chipping at each piece until bloodied and bruised it broke free. Closing the expanse between them on hands and knees she bent over the ledge and grasped his dangling arms. Below, a roaring inferno had devoured the stage belching out thick puffs of noxious smoke and bright tongues of flame higher and higher into the air. An explosion of glass and glowing embers rained down on them when the window blew and violent crashing echoed on every side.

Belle’s tears dripped into Andre’s face as she clung to his tense wrists. “Hold on, Love! Don’t let go. Stay with me. I’ve got you.” Digging her elbows into the splintered boards beside his fingers, they began to pop and creak against her weight.

“Don’t! Belle!” Andre’s voice rose clear and loud over the destruction around them. He never looked down; his eyes were fixed on Belle’s and his voice grew tender as he searched her tear-streaked face. “You have to let go now, Belle. You have to let go of me, Sweetheart.”

“No!” Belle screamed. Her grip tightened and her fingernails dug into the underside of his wrists with the effort. The boards moaned in protestation to her every move. It was only a matter of seconds before it broke beneath them both. “I won’t let go.”

“You have to. You have to let me go. I love you, Belle. I have always loved you.” Eyes locked on her own, Gold released his grip on the planks between her arms and she groaned under the strain of his weight in her hands. The blaze had already reached his feet. She couldn’t hold on.

“Damn, no! Come on, Papa! I’ve got you!” Muscle and flesh laid down beside her. Two strong hands reached out, past her own, locking around Andre’s forearms. Against the crack and strain of fracturing wood, Bailey lifted his father from the mouth of hell. Thick, oily smoke scorched their eyes and lungs as they rose to leave. The flames had fanned out across three walls, rushing greedily toward them as they half limped, half ran out the door toward the old iron steps on the north side; but they stopped short where a barricade of fire and smoke blocked their exit.

“This way!” Belle yelled as she led them through a maze of blackened corridors toward the opera offices. Limping to the end of one long hall, flanked by glass doors, a neon exit sign bled through the gray fog. It took both men to move the heavy oak door, rusted and warped from disuse, but it gave way with a deep groan as all three stepped onto Rue Glück, filtering great gulps of fresh night air through their scorched lungs. The ground was white beneath their feet, ash fell from the sky like gray flakes of snow, turning Paris into an eerie winter wonderland.  Fire engines and workers were busy on the far side of the building while spectators stared aghast at their crumbling landmark.

Andre wrapped a sooty arm around his son, squeezed him tightly and released him. Tucking Belle securely against his chest he led his family away from the scene. 


	24. Monsieur and Madame Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a thrilling ride. Thank you.

The headlines read:

_Mademoiselle Regina Prevot and Gaston Gautier, who were arrested last Tuesday outside Le Paris Opera House on charges of attempted murder and arson, are waiting to stand trial. The owner of Le Parisian has released this statement concerning the ruined landmark:_

_We have every intention of restoring our beloved opera house to its former glory. Heavy construction will begin this week and should be completed before the end of the year._

Andre tipped his head back, cradling his neck against the cool porcelain bathtub. 

“Pops! You in there?”

“Where else would I be?” Gold snapped with a smirk.

“You seen the papers yet?”

“Got them right here.”

“Aren’t we worried that Prevot and Gautier will testify?”

“Can’t a man have a moment of peace in his bath?”

“Not when that man only has a couple of hours until his wedding!” Lee bellowed through the door.

“Monsieur! Are you…finished yet?” Grinning ear-to-ear, Lee stepped aside as Hopper approached with a timid knock. Arms folded, shoulder braced against the doorframe, and head cocked saucily to the side he waited expectantly for the inevitable hurricane bound to blow through the opposite side of the door.

“ _Va te faire foutre!_ _Imb_ é _ciles!_ What does a man have to do in order to get a moment of peace in his own bath?”

“You’ve been pruning for ages, Old Man! Hurry up before you look so old Belle will forget she’s in love with you!” Lee countered with a devilish wink at Hopper.

“Is he still in there?” Whale swept into the room with his million-dollar smile and Louis Vuitton tux slung over one shoulder.

There was an unceremonious swish of water and a great deal of swearing before a sodden, towel clad Andre barreled through the bathroom door. Clenching the towel with one fist and running his other hand through his dripping mane he glowered at every man in the room.

“Oh! Cheer up, Old Beast! You’re getting married today,” Lee teased with a playful punch to his dad’s shoulder. This softened the rage somewhat and Gold simply responded by snatching up some gray sweatpants and heading back into the bathroom to change.  

“Seriously though, what are we going to do about those les fauteurs de troubles?”

“What troublemakers?” Jefferson sauntered through the open door already dressed to the nines in his tux.

Lee tossed him the morning paper and Jefferson gave it a once-over while he picked at Gold’s untouched breakfast tray.

“There’s nothing to be done.” Gold responded from the bathroom door. Clad lazily in sweatpants, his two hands vigorously worked the hotel towel through his thick head of hair, blocking his expression and any hope of understanding his son hoped to glean from there. 

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll blab to the police?” Lee pressed.

Gold dropped the damp towel across his bare shoulders and crossed the room to snatch back his café from Jefferson’s greedy hands. “Non. The Russians will see to it that those two keep their mouths shut. They won’t be bothering us anymore.”

Hopper nodded in confident agreement. “You have in fact, received word from, um… _them_ , this morning, Monsieur.” Archambault carefully omitted madame’s name as he plucked the note from his jacket pocket and handed it to Gold.

“Ah, oui!” Andre scanned the contents swiftly and handed the note back to Hopper. “Everything has been taken care of.”

“In that case!” Jefferson leapt up from a corner chair where he’d resumed his sly snacking.  “You look aweful! Let’s do something about your hair!”

 

Spilling over the red and cream toile bedspread the slippery, white satin underskirt cascaded in shimmering folds to the floor. Monique Lhullier had designed the dress, personally overseeing the entire process. Belle scooped up the soft silk and spread it out next to its hand-stitched, floral lace overlay. Delicious goosebumps sped up and down her spine at the thought of Andre’s nimble fingers picking at the long line of pearl buttons that trailed down the back. Hugging her arms to her chest against the morning’s chill, Belle wandered to the hotel window.  The first rays of morning light outlined the sharp, austere lines of Notre Dame. Belle knew that hidden inside, an army of people were already preparing for her arrival.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Belle!”

“Madame Potts.” Belle gave the cheerful woman a happy squeeze.

“ _Fais attention!_ You will spill your food!”

“I couldn’t possibly swallow a mouthful.”

“Tsk! You will eat!” Madame proceeded to plate a pain suisse while Belle ducked into the bath to start the water.

“Now don’t tell me you forced the hotel chef out of his kitchen?” she teased with a wink on her return.

“Of course not! I made them at home. Archambault drove me here. I would not trust their ingredients!” the little woman sniffed with disgust. Belle stifled a giggle and took a large bite of the creamy pastry, wondering if Andre was being similarly force-fed in his own room.

Madame Potts answered the three taps at the door as Marie Michel and Ruby came bounding in.

“Belle? Haven’t you bathed yet?”

“Have you just woken up?”

“You have no time at all!”

By the time Belle had finished her quick toilette her suite was flooded with Marie, Ruby, Lani, Emma, August, the wedding planner, a team from Monique Lhullier and Madame Potts. August was unceremoniously kicked out on his rear as the girls flocked around the bride. 

 

There wasn’t a rose left in Paris. Eric Chauvin, France’s most sought-after florist had confiscated every velvety bud in the entire city. Bright, full garlands of peach, pink, white, and red roses snaked Notre Dame’s stately stone columns.  Its checkered marble floors were blanketed in crimson petals as far as the eye could see. Even the chandeliers wore wreathes of scarlet and violet buds.

Whale was jabbering something in his ear, but Gold wasn’t listening. Four hundred people occupied the cathedral. They chatted amiably with each other and strutted about in their finest, every once in a while glancing in his direction. The master of ceremonies slipped quietly into the throng and wove his way through to Andre’s side. Emma and Lee snuck in through a side door to let him know the ceremony would start in ten minutes.

A thin layer of sweat clung obstinately to his chest and back, despite his fight for outward calm. They’d been through so much to get to this point. All of Gold’s hopes, his desires, and reason for living were wrapped up in the one person who hadn’t arrived yet. For good measure five burly guards were covering her every move, but he knew nothing would soothe him until she’d returned to his side.

Lee shot Gold a sideways glance and clapped a strong arm around his father’s tense shoulders. “Relax, Papa,” he drawled with a wide grin. “She’s just getting ready. She’ll be here any minute.”

“She could wear a potato sack for all I care! Should it take this long?” Gold sought Emma’s face in frustrated desperation.

“Uh…yeah! I’m sure these things usually take a while. Don’t worry, she’ll be here soon. Well…uh…I’d better go.” Emma tossed Lee a shy smile that didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the group and rushed outside to scan the street for the bridal party’s car.

 

Belle’s crowd herded out to the hotel lobby in a jolly symphony of noise, leaving behind a heavy quiet that helped soothe the bride’s jumbled nerves. Only Madame Potts remained behind, silently tidying the room for their departure.

It was a small sigh, almost imperceptible but Madame perceived it. With a quick step and a soft smile she pulled Belle to her side with a motherly embrace.

“What’s wrong, child?”

She couldn’t speak. There was so much. There had always been so much! Little things and big things getting in the way of their love – of her future with Andre. And yet, here she stood in her wedding dress. They had made it, but at what cost? Belle thought about Killian, about Regina, about Gaston and about Madame Millet. She knew Regina and Gaston were still alive, she also understood that they were no longer a threat in the hands of the French authorities. Despite this, she couldn’t stop the fire from burning in her mind, tugging at memories of sounds and smells she wanted so desperately to forget. In her dreams she was there again, only this time she heard them crying out, Madame Millet screaming through the flames that consumed the opera house. Blinking back a hurricane of emotion and confusion Belle lowered her eyes to the tear shaped stone on her left hand, the stone that had reunited them in the eye of the storm when Killian died.

Perceiving Belle’s need for privacy, Madame meekly crept out of the room as Belle listened half-heartedly to her retreating steps, waiting for the familiar click of the heavy door, but it never came. Instead an unfamiliar feminine voice broke the dense stillness of the room.

“Vous êtes magnifique,” the stranger greeted quietly and Belle turned around to face the mysterious woman from the opera house. Keen sable eyes in a pale heart-shaped face were studying the bride from head to toe. Light brown hair sculpted in expert waves over one shoulder brushed the lapel of her streamlined, champagne silk suit.

She attempted no more than five steps into the room. Belle felt her stare reach deep inside as if the stranger was attempting to study her thoughts and emotions the way she was studying her physical appearance.

“Merci,” Belle responded politely, but she instinctively glanced at the door wondering how her guards could have missed this woman’s brazen entrance.

“I am an old friend of Monsieur Gold. The guards,” she waved lightly toward the exit, “they recognize me. I don’t want to take up much of your time. I simply wanted to offer my congratulations. I won’t be able to stay for the ceremony, but I did want to wish you well.”

Alina Polakoff then stepped forward and Belle met her outstretched hand. When their eyes locked up close, the older woman smiled through glassy eyes and Belle wondered at the tenderness she caught there.

“I recognize you,” Belle ventured bravely, “You were the woman at the opera house.”

The stranger didn’t blink. She released Belle’s hand slowly and her voice was smooth as glass when she replied, “Ah, yes.” A plastic smile spread crimson lips across creased milky skin as she formed her next words thoughtfully. “I once had some unpleasant business to complete…there.”

Pressure built on Belle’s chest and she fought to master every nerve with her next question. “Did you start the fire? The fire that…”

Understanding seemed to kindle in the woman’s brown eyes and she hesitated only an instant before swallowing the pill of blame and disgust with one more shallow grin. Sorting through the complex emotions etched in those cornflower blue eyes, Alina accepted the brunt of judgment in exchange for her daughter’s peaceful union with Gold. No one on earth, most especially Andre Rochon Gold, deserved the love and muted relief that welled up in their depths, but Alina’s one spark of maternal instinct wanted Belle’s happiness, and securing Andre’s innocence would release that.

“Are you sure this is the decision that you want to make?” Alina asked with the same practiced, emotionless tone. The tenderness had left the woman’s eyes and Belle felt a door had closed somehow –a door she would never see again and for some unexplainable reason it made her sad. The dulcet, silken voice continued, “It’s difficult to marry anyone with a lifestyle like Andre’s. I would know. Quite a…challenge.” Alina’s expression relaxed in a fog of thought. “I was married once. I had a family...but it was not the life for me,” she finished hurriedly her accent thickening with repressed emotion.  “Sometimes I think…if I had stayed,” the line of Alina’s shoulders softened and her gaze, ever fixed on Belle’s blue eyes dropped to the Persian rug at their feet, “well, maybe things could have been…different.” Alina plucked the bridal bouquet from its vase of water on the nightstand and stared appreciatively at the perfect peony spheres and creamy rosebuds. Then she held it out to the bride. 

Belle took the bouquet with a warm smile of thanks. “I think…” Belle bit her lip and absorbed the wave of memories once again, this time with fresh resolve planting her heart in its bed of decision. “I think with me he _is_ a better man. Despite all that he’s done and all that he still struggles with, he’s a better man when I’m at his side.” Belle shrugged and glanced down once again at the teardrop diamond pressed against her small finger. “And I know this, because I’m a better woman when I’m with him. Without him I’m only half of who I want to be.”

Nights slaving over ballet steps, perfect arches, upsweeps and landings; early hours pouring over books, sharing thoughts and braving untapped emotions washed over Belle’s mind and heart. The man was nothing, if not determined. He had promised a better life for them both and she knew now that he would make it happen, the same way he secured perfection from every performance she gave, through blood, sweat and tears. She realized with overwhelming peace, that Andre Rochon Gold would never give up changing and growing. She knew he would always be at her side, protecting, loving, encouraging her best and securing her happiness with fearless resolve, just as she would be there for him.  She could never give up on him, just as he never gave up on her.

“Well, congratulations. I wish you and Andre a lifetime of happiness.” With a small smile Polakoff turned to retreat from the room.

“Thank you so much.” Belle dipped her face to the fragrant bouquet she clutched and filled her head with the comforting aroma. Realizing the mysterious woman was departing, “Wait!” Belle called out after her. “I never got your…name.” But the hotel door had shut and although Belle felt certain the stranger heard her last question, it didn’t open again. After a moment, Belle swept up her last few belongings and headed out the door. 

 

Everyone stood, every eye was on the cathedral doors and Andre Gold watched his heart walk slowly down the aisle, velvet petals swishing left and right beneath her lace and satin. She was smiling, his Belle – _his sweet, wondrous Belle_. She was smiling on the arm of her father and there was no doubt in her eyes. Trembling with the realization of her clear forgiveness and pure acceptance, the groom received and tucked his bride’s precious hand into the safety of his arm, guiding her gently to the alter.  Under the unwavering eyes of God and man, Gold promised to fulfill his life’s desire and purpose, longing with every fiber of his being to love, cherish, protect and serve his wife all the days of his life. Her promise was like a balm on his soul. The words _husband and wife_ were a symphony and their shared kiss was heaven’s gate. The shouts and cheers of well-wishing friends fluttered on the outskirts of his consciousness. Only Belle existed for him. The way she glowed and laughed, the dimple in her right cheek and the brush of her hair on his chin when she ducked into his arms as they descended the steps of Notre Dame.

There was a lavish reception that lasted far too long, but Gold enjoyed watching Belle’s happy chatter, enjoyed the adoration she was given, the compliments she received and the blushes they produced.

Cradling her hand firmly in his own, he guided them to the dance floor. In the midst of their turn about the room, he managed to catch his son’s eyes. Meeting acceptance and understanding there as well, he was born again. Belle dipped and swayed in his arms, her eyes fluttering shut as she curled into his chest.  Her favorite song ended, other couples joined them on the dance floor and the lights rose again in the room, but the couple didn’t move. Burying his face in the silken crown of her head, he whispered her favorite words.

“I love you.”

 

_Fin_


End file.
